MUSICIANS OF TO-DAY

BY

ROMAIN ROLLAND

AUTHOR OF "JEAN-CHRISTOPHE"

TRANSLATED BY

MARY BLAIKLOCK

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY

CLAUDE LANDI

[Illustration: Decorative]

NEW YORK

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

1915

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

BERLIOZ

WAGNER:

"Siegfried"

"Tristan"

CAMILLE SAINT-SAËNS

VINCENT D'INDY

RICHARD STRAUSS

HUGO WOLF

DON LORENZO PEROSI

FRENCH AND GERMAN MUSIC

CLAUDE DEBUSSY:

"Pelléas et Mélisande"

THE AWAKENING: A SKETCH OF THE MUSICAL MOVEMENT IN PARIS SINCE 1870

Paris and Music

Musical Institutions before 1870

New Musical Institutions

The Present Condition of French Music

INTRODUCTION

It is perhaps fitting that the series of volumes comprising _TheMusician's Bookshelf_ should be inaugurated by the present collection ofessays. To the majority of English readers the name of that strange andforceful personality, Romain Rolland, is known only through hismagnificent, intimate record of an artist's life and aspirations, embracing ten volumes, _Jean-Christophe_. This is not the place in whichto discuss that masterpiece. A few biographical facts concerning theauthor may not, however, be out of place here. 

Romain Rolland is forty-eight years old. He was born on January 29, 1866, at Clamecy (Nièvre), France. He came very early under theinfluence of Tolstoy and Wagner and displayed a remarkable criticalfaculty. In 1895 (at the age of twenty-nine) we find him awarded thecoveted Grand Prix of the Académie Française for his work _Histoire del'Opéra en Europe avant Lulli et Scarlatti_, and in the same year hesustained, before the faculty of the Sorbonne--where he now occupies thechair of musical criticism--a remarkable dissertation on _The Originof_ _the Modern Lyrical Drama_--his thesis for the Doctorate. This, inreality, is a vehement protest against the indifference for the Art ofMusic which, up to that time, had always been displayed by theUniversity. In 1903 he published a remarkable _Life of Beethoven_, followed by a _Life of Hugo Wolf_ in 1905. The present volume, togetherwith its companion, _Musiciens d'Autrefois_, appeared in 1908. Bothform remarkable essays and reveal a consummate and most intimateknowledge of the life and works of our great contemporaries. A justestimate of a composer's work is not to be arrived at without a study ofhis works and of the conditions under which these were produced. Totake, for instance, the case of but one of the composers treated in thisvolume, Hector Berlioz. No composer has been so misunderstood, sovilified as he, simply because those who have written about him, eitherwilfully or through ignorance, have grossly misrepresented him. 

The essay on Berlioz, in the present volume, reveals a true insight intothe personality of this unfortunate and great artist, and removes anyfalse misconceptions which unsympathetic and superficial handling mayhave engendered. Indeed, the same introspective faculty is displayed inall the other essays which form this volume, which, it is believed, willprove of the greatest value not only to the professional student, butalso to the _intelligent listener_, for whom the present series ofvolumes has been primarily planned. We hear much, nowadays, of the valueof "Musical Appreciation. " It is high time that something was done toeducate our audiences and to dispel the hitherto prevalent fallacy thatMusic need not be regarded seriously. We do not want more creativeartists, more executants; the world is full of them--good, bad andindifferent--but we _do_ want more _intelligent listeners_. 

I do not think it is an exaggeration to assert that the majority oflisteners at a high-class concert or recital are absolutely bored. Howcan it be otherwise, when the composers represented are mere names tothem? Why should the general public appreciate a Bach fugue, anintricate symphony or a piece of chamber-music? Do we professionalmusicians appreciate the technique of a wonderful piece of sculpture, ofan equally wonderful feat of engineering or even of a miraculoussurgical operation? It may be argued that an analogy between sculpture, engineering, surgery and music is absurd, because the three former donot appeal to the masses in the same manner as music does. Precisely: itis because of this universal appeal on the part of music that the publicshould be educated to _listen_ to _good_ music; that they should begiven, in a general way, a chance to acquaint themselves with the lawsunderlying the "Beautiful in Music" and should be shown the demandswhich a right appreciation of the Art makes upon the Intellect and theEmotions. 

And, surely, such a "desideratum" may best be effected by a carefulperusal of the manuals to be included in the present series. It isincontestable that the reader of the following pages--apart from aknowledge of the various musical forms, of orchestration, etc. --all ofwhich will be duly treated in successive volumes--will be in a betterposition to appreciate the works of the several composers to which hemay be privileged to listen. The last essay, especially, will be readwith interest to-day, when we may hope to look forward to a cessation ofrace-hatred and distrust, and to what a writer in the _Musical Times_(September, 1914) has called, "a new sense of the emotional solidarityof mankind. From that sense alone, " he adds, "can the real music of thefuture be born. "

 CLAUDE LANDI. 

MUSICIANS OF TO-DAY

BERLIOZ

I

It may seem a paradox to say that no musician is so little known asBerlioz. The world thinks it knows him. A noisy fame surrounds hisperson and his work. Musical Europe has celebrated his centenary. Germany disputes with France the glory of having nurtured and shaped hisgenius. Russia, whose triumphal reception consoled him for theindifference and enmity of Paris, [1] has said, through the voice ofBalakirew, that he was "the only musician France possessed. " His chiefcompositions are often played at concerts; and some of them have therare quality of appealing both to the cultured and the crowd; a few haveeven reached great popularity. Works have been dedicated to him, and hehimself has been described and criticised by many writers. He is populareven to his face; for his face, like his music, was so striking andsingular that it seemed to show you his character at a glance. No cloudshide his mind and its creations, which, unlike Wagner's, need noinitiation to be understood; they seem to have no hidden meaning, nosubtle mystery; one is instantly their friend or their enemy, for thefirst impression is a lasting one. 

[Footnote 1: "And you, Russia, who have saved me. .. . " (Berlioz, _Mémoires_, II, 353, Calmann-Lévy's edition, 1897). ]

That is the worst of it; people imagine that they understand Berliozwith so very little trouble. Obscurity of meaning may harm an artistless than a seeming transparency; to be shrouded in mist may meanremaining long misunderstood, but those who wish to understand will atleast be thorough in their search for the truth. It is not alwaysrealised how depth and complexity may exist in a work of clear designand strong contrasts--in the obvious genius of some great Italian of theRenaissance as much as in the troubled heart of a Rembrandt and thetwilight of the North. 

That is the first pitfall; but there are many more that will beset us inthe attempt to understand Berlioz. To get at the man himself one mustbreak down a wall of prejudice and pedantry, of convention andintellectual snobbery. In short, one must shake off nearly all currentideas about his work if one wishes to extricate it from the dust thathas drifted about it for half a century. 

Above all, one must not make the mistake of contrasting Berlioz withWagner, either by sacrificing Berlioz to that Germanic Odin, or byforcibly trying to reconcile one to the other. For there are some whocondemn Berlioz in the name of Wagner's theories; and others who, notliking the sacrifice, seek to make him a forerunner of Wagner, or kindof elder brother, whose mission was to clear a way and prepare a roadfor a genius greater than his own. Nothing is falser. To understandBerlioz one must shake off the hypnotic influence of Bayreuth. ThoughWagner may have learnt something from Berlioz, the two composers havenothing in common; their genius and their art are absolutely opposed;each one has ploughed his furrow in a different field. 

The Classical misunderstanding is quite as dangerous. By that I mean theclinging to superstitions of the past, and the pedantic desire toenclose art within narrow limits, which still flourish among critics. Who has not met these censors of music? They will tell you with solidcomplacence how far music may go, and where it must stop, and what itmay express and what it must not. They are not always musiciansthemselves. But what of that? Do they not lean on the example of thepast? The past! a handful of works that they themselves hardlyunderstand. Meanwhile, music, by its unceasing growth, gives the lie totheir theories, and breaks down these weak barriers. But they do not seeit, do not wish to see it; since they cannot advance themselves, theydeny progress. Critics of this kind do not think favourably of Berlioz'sdramatic and descriptive symphonies. How should they appreciate theboldest musical achievement of the nineteenth century? These dreadfulpedants and zealous defenders of an art that they only understand afterit has ceased to live are the worst enemies of unfettered genius, andmay do more harm than a whole army of ignorant people. For in a countrylike ours, where musical education is poor, timidity is great in thepresence of a strong, but only half-understood, tradition; and anyonewho has the boldness to break away from it is condemned withoutjudgment. I doubt if Berlioz would have obtained any consideration atall from lovers of classical music in France if he had not found alliesin that country of classical music, Germany--"the oracle of Delphi, ""Germania alma parens, "[2] as he called her. Some of the young Germanschool found inspiration in Berlioz. The dramatic symphony that hecreated flourished in its German form under Liszt; the most eminentGerman composer of to-day, Richard Strauss, came under his influence;and Felix Weingartner, who with Charles Malherbe edited Berlioz'scomplete works, was bold enough to write, "In spite of Wagner and Liszt, we should not be where we are if Berlioz had not lived. " This unexpectedsupport, coming from a country of traditions, has thrown the partisansof Classic tradition into confusion, and rallied Berlioz's friends. 

[Footnote 2: _Mémoires_, II, 149. ]

But here is a new danger. Though it is natural that Germany, moremusical than France, should recognise the grandeur and originality ofBerlioz's music before France, it is doubtful whether the German naturecould ever fully understand a soul so French in its essence. It is, perhaps, what is exterior in Berlioz, his positive originality, that theGermans appreciate. They prefer the _Requiem_ to _Roméo_. A RichardStrauss would be attracted by an almost insignificant work like the_Ouverture du roi Lear_; a Weingartner would single out for noticeworks like the _Symphonic fantastique_ and _Harold_, and exaggeratetheir importance. But they do not feel what is intimate in him. Wagnersaid over the tomb of Weber, "England does you justice, France admiresyou, but only Germany loves you; you are of her own being, a gloriousday of her life, a warm drop of her blood, a part of her heart. .. . " Onemight adapt his words to Berlioz; it is as difficult for a German reallyto love Berlioz as it is for a Frenchman to love Wagner or Weber. Onemust, therefore, be careful about accepting unreservedly the judgment ofGermany on Berlioz; for in that would lie the danger of a newmisunderstanding. You see how both the followers and opponents ofBerlioz hinder us from getting at the truth. Let us dismiss them. 

Have we now come to the end of our difficulties? Not yet; for Berlioz isthe most illusive of men, and no one has helped more than he to misleadpeople in their estimate of him. We know how much he has written aboutmusic and about his own life, and what wit and understanding he shows inhis shrewd criticisms and charming _Mémoires_. [3]

[Footnote 3: The literary work of Berlioz is rather uneven. Besidepassages of exquisite beauty we find others that are ridiculous in theirexaggerated sentiment, and there are some that even lack good taste. Buthe had a natural gift of style, and his writing is vigorous, and full offeeling, especially towards the latter half of his life. The _Processiondes Rogations_ is often quoted from the _Mémoires_; and some of hispoetical text, particularly that in _L'Enfance du Christ_ and in _LesTroyens_, is written in beautiful language and with a fine sense ofrhythm. His _Mémoires_ as a whole is one of the most delightful booksever written by an artist. Wagner was a greater poet, but as a prosewriter Berlioz is infinitely superior. See Paul Morillot's essay on_Berlioz écrivain_, 1903, Grenoble. ] One would think that such animaginative and skilful writer, accustomed in his profession of criticto express every shade of feeling, would be able to tell us more exactlyhis ideas of art than a Beethoven or a Mozart. But it is not so. As toomuch light may blind the vision, so too much intellect may hinder theunderstanding. Berlioz's mind spent itself in details; it reflectedlight from too many facets, and did not focus itself in one strong beamwhich would have made known his power. He did not know how to dominateeither his life or his work; he did not even try to dominate them. Hewas the incarnation of romantic genius, an unrestrained force, unconscious of the road he trod. I would not go so far as to say that hedid not understand himself, but there are certainly times when he ispast understanding himself. He allows himself to drift where chance willtake him, [4] like an old Scandinavian pirate laid at the bottom of hisboat, staring up at the sky; and he dreams and groans and laughs andgives himself up to his feverish delusions. He lived with his emotionsas uncertainly as he lived with his art. In his music, as in hiscriticisms of music, he often contradicts himself, hesitates, and turnsback; he is not sure either of his feelings or his thoughts. He haspoetry in his soul, and strives to write operas; but his admirationwavers between Gluck and Meyerbeer. He has a popular genius, butdespises the people. He is a daring musical revolutionary, but heallows the control of this musical movement to be taken from him byanyone who wishes to have it. Worse than that: he disowns the movement, turns his back upon the future, and throws himself again into the past. For what reason? Very often he does not know. Passion, bitterness, caprice, wounded pride--these have more influence with him than theserious things of life. He is a man at war with himself. 

[Footnote 4: "Chance, that unknown god, who plays such a great part inmy life" (_Mémoires_, II, 161). ]

Then contrast Berlioz with Wagner. Wagner, too, was stirred by violentpassions, but he was always master of himself, and his reason remainedunshaken by the storms of his heart or those of the world, by thetorments of love or the strife of political revolutions. He made hisexperiences and even his errors serve his art; he wrote about histheories before he put them into practice; and he only launched out whenhe was sure of himself, and when the way lay clear before him. And thinkhow much Wagner owes to this written expression of his aims and themagnetic attraction of his arguments. It was his prose works thatfascinated the King of Bavaria before he had heard his music; and formany others also they have been the key to that music. I remember beingimpressed by Wagner's ideas when I only half understood his art; andwhen one of his compositions puzzled me, my confidence was not shaken, for I was sure that the genius who was so convincing in his reasoningwould not blunder; and that if his music baffled me, it was I who was atfault. Wagner was really his own best friend, his own most trustychampion; and his was the guiding hand that led one through the thickforest and over the rugged crags of his work. 

Not only do you get no help from Berlioz in this way, but he is thefirst to lead you astray and wander with you in the paths of error. Tounderstand his genius you must seize hold of it unaided. His genius wasreally great, but, as I shall try to show you, it lay at the mercy of aweak character. 

 * * * * *

Everything about Berlioz was misleading, even his appearance. Inlegendary portraits he appears as a dark southerner with black hair andsparkling eyes. But he was really very fair and had blue eyes, [5] andJoseph d'Ortigue tells us they were deep-set and piercing, thoughsometimes clouded by melancholy or languor. [6] He had a broad foreheadfurrowed with wrinkles by the time he was thirty, and a thick mane ofhair, or, as E. Legouvé puts it, "a large umbrella of hair, projectinglike a movable awning over the beak of a bird of prey. "[7]

[Footnote 5: "I was fair, " wrote Berlioz to Bülow (unpublished letters, 1858). "A shock of reddish hair, " he wrote in his _Mémoires_, I, 165. "Sandy-coloured hair, " said Reyer. For the colour of Berlioz's hair Irely upon the evidence of Mme. Chapót, his niece. ]

[Footnote 6: Joseph d'Ortigue, _Le Balcon de l'Opéra_, 1833. ]

[Footnote 7: E. Legouvé, _Soixante ans de souvenirs_. Legouvé describesBerlioz here as he saw him for the first time. ]

His mouth was well cut, with lips compressed and puckered at thecorners in a severe fold, and his chin was prominent. He had a deepvoice, [8] but his speech was halting and often tremulous with emotion;he would speak passionately of what interested him, and at times beeffusive in manner, but more often he was ungracious and reserved. Hewas of medium height, rather thin and angular in figure, and when seatedhe seemed much taller than he really was. [9] He was very restless, andinherited from his native land, Dauphiné, the mountaineer's passion forwalking and climbing, and the love of a vagabond life, which remainedwith him nearly to his death. [10] He had an iron constitution, but hewrecked it by privation and excess, by his walks in the rain, and bysleeping out-of-doors in all weathers, even when there was snow on theground. [11]

[Footnote 8: "A passable baritone, " says Berlioz _(Mémoires_, I, 58). In1830, in the streets of Paris, he sang "a bass part" _(Mémoires_, I, 156). During his first visit to Germany the Prince of Hechingen made himsing "the part of the violoncello" in one of his compositions(_Mémoires_, II, 32). ]

[Footnote 9: There are two good portraits of Berlioz. One is aphotograph by Pierre Petit, taken in 1863, which he sent to Mme. EstelleFornier. It shows him leaning on his elbow, with his head bent, and hiseyes fixed on the ground as if he were tired. The other is thephotograph which he had reproduced in the first edition of his_Mémoires_, and which shows him leaning back, his hands in his pockets, his head upright, with an expression of energy in his face, and a fixedand stern look in his eyes. ]

[Footnote 10: He would go on foot from Naples to Rome in a straight lineover the mountains, and would walk at one stretch from Subiaco toTivoli. ]

[Footnote 11: This brought on several attacks of bronchitis and frequentsore throats, as well as the internal affection from which he died. ]

But in this strong and athletic frame lived a feverish and sickly soulthat was dominated and tormented by a morbid craving for love andsympathy: "that imperative need of love which is killing me. .. . "[12] Tolove, to be loved--he would give up all for that. 

[Footnote 12: "Music and love are the two wings of the soul, " he wrotein his _Mémoires_. ]

But his love was that of a youth who lives in dreams; it was never thestrong, clear-eyed passion of a man who has faced the realities of life, and who sees the defects as well as the charms of the woman he loves, Berlioz was in love with love, and lost himself among visions andsentimental shadows. To the end of his life he remained "a poor littlechild worn out by a love that was beyond him. "[13] But this man wholived so wild and adventurous a life expressed his passions withdelicacy; and one finds an almost girlish purity in the immortal lovepassages of _Les Troyens_ or the "_nuit sereine"_ of _Roméo etJuliette_. And compare this Virgilian affection with Wagner's sensualraptures. Does it mean that Berlioz could not love as well as Wagner? Weonly know that Berlioz's life was made up of love and its torments. Thetheme of a touching passage in the Introduction of the _Symphonicfantastique_ has been recently identified by M. Julien Tiersot, in hisinteresting book, [14] with a romance composed by Berlioz at the age oftwelve, when he loved a girl of eighteen "with large eyes and pinkshoes"--Estelle, _Stella mentis, Stella matutina_. These words--perhapsthe saddest he ever wrote--might serve as an emblem of his life, a lifethat was a prey to love and melancholy, doomed to wringing of the heartand awful loneliness; a life lived in a hollow world, among worries thatchilled the blood; a life that was distasteful and had no solace tooffer him in its end. [15] He has himself described this terrible "_malde l'isolement_, " which pursued him all his life, vividly andminutely. [16] He was doomed to suffering, or, what was worse, to makeothers suffer. 

[Footnote 13: _Mémoires_, I, 11. ]

[Footnote 14: Julien Tiersot, _Hector Berlioz et la société de sontemps_, 1903, Hachette. ]

[Footnote 15: See the _Mémoires_, I, 139. ]

[Footnote 16: "I do not know how to describe this terrible sickness. .. . My throbbing breast seems to be sinking into space; and my heart, drawing in some irresistible force, feels as though it would expanduntil it evaporated and dissolved away. My skin becomes hot and tender, and flushes from head to foot. I want to cry out to my friends (eventhose I do not care for) to help and comfort me, to save me fromdestruction, and keep in the life that is ebbing from me. I have nosensation of impending death in these attacks, and suicide seemsimpossible; I do not want to die--far from it, I want very much to live, to intensify life a thousandfold. It is an excessive appetite forhappiness, which becomes unbearable when it lacks food; and it is onlysatisfied by intense delights, which give this great overflow of feelingan outlet. It is not a state of spleen, though that may follow later . .. Spleen is rather the congealing of all these emotions--the block of ice. Even when I am calm I feel a little of this '_isolement_' on Sundays insummer, when our towns are lifeless, and everyone is in the country; forI know that people are enjoying themselves away from me, and I feeltheir absence. The _adagio_ of Beethoven's symphonies, certain scenesfrom Gluck's _Alceste_ and _Armide_, an air from his Italian opera_Telemacco_, the Elysian fields of his _Orfeo_, will bring on rather badattacks of this suffering; but these masterpieces bring with them alsoan antidote--they make one's tears flow, and then the pain is eased. Onthe other hand, the _adagio_ of some of Beethoven's sonatas and Gluck's_Iphigénie en Tauride_ are full of melancholy, and therefore provokespleen . .. It is then cold within, the sky is grey and overcast withclouds, the north wind moans dully. .. . " _(Mémoires_, I, 246). ]

Who does not know his passion for Henrietta Smithson? It was a sadstory. He fell in love with an English actress who played Juliet (Was itshe or Juliet whom he loved?). He caught but a glance of her, and it wasall over with him. He cried out, "Ah, I am lost!" He desired her; sherepulsed him. He lived in a delirium of suffering and passion; hewandered about for days and nights like a madman, up and down Paris andits neighbourhood, without purpose or rest or relief, until sleepovercame him wherever it found him--among the sheaves in a field nearVillejuif, in a meadow near Sceaux, on the bank of the frozen Seine nearNeuilly, in the snow, and once on a table in the Café Cardinal, where heslept for five hours, to the great alarm of the waiters, who thought hewas dead. [17] Meanwhile, he was told slanderous gossip about Henrietta, which he readily believed. Then he despised her, and dishonoured herpublicly in his _Symphonie fantastique_, paying homage in his bitterresentment to Camille Moke, a pianist, to whom he lost his heart withoutdelay. 

[Footnote 17: _Mémoires_, I, 98. ]

After a time Henrietta reappeared. She had now lost her youth and herpower; her beauty was waning, and she was in debt. Berlioz's passion wasat once rekindled. This time Henrietta accepted his advances. He madealterations in his symphony, and offered it to her in homage of hislove. He won her, and married her, with fourteen thousand francs debt. He had captured his dream--Juliet! Ophelia! What was she really? Acharming Englishwoman, cold, loyal, and sober-minded, who understoodnothing of his passion; and who, from the time she became his wife, loved him jealously and sincerely, and thought to confine him within thenarrow world of domestic life. But his affections became restive, and helost his heart to a Spanish actress (it was always an actress, avirtuoso, or a part) and left poor Ophelia, and went off with MarieRecio, the Inès of _Favorite_, the page of _Comte Ory_--a practical, hardheaded woman, an indifferent singer with a mania for singing. Thehaughty Berlioz was forced to fawn upon the directors of the theatre inorder to get her parts, to write flattering notices in praise of hertalents, and even to let her make his own melodies discordant at theconcerts he arranged. [18] It would all be dreadfully ridiculous if thisweakness of character had not brought tragedy in its train. 

So the one he really loved, and who always loved him, remained alone, without friends, in Paris, where she was a stranger. She drooped insilence and pined slowly away, bedridden, paralysed, and unable to speakduring eight years of suffering. Berlioz suffered too, for he loved herstill and was torn with pity--"pity, the most painful of allemotions. "[19] But of what use was this pity? He left Henrietta tosuffer alone and to die just the same. And, what was worse, as we learnfrom Legouvé, he let his mistress, the odious Recio, make a scene beforepoor Henrietta. [20] Recio told him of it and boasted about what she haddone. 

[Footnote 18: "Isn't it really devilish, " he said to Legouvé, "tragicand silly at the same time? I should deserve to go to hell if I wasn'tthere already. "]

[Footnote 19: _Mémoires_, II, 335. See the touching passages he wrote onHenrietta Smithson's death. ]

[Footnote 20: "One day, Henrietta, who was living alone at Montmartre, heard someone ring the bell, and went to open the door. 

"'Is Mme. Berlioz at home?'

"'I am Mme. Berlioz. '

"'You are mistaken; I asked for Mme. Berlioz. '

"'And I tell you, I am Mme. Berlioz. '

"'No, you are not. You are speaking of the old Mme. Berlioz, the one whowas abandoned; I am speaking of the young and pretty and loved one. Well, that is myself!'

"And Recio went out and banged the door after her. 

"Legouvé said to Berlioz, 'Who told you this abominable thing? I supposeshe who did it; and then she boasted about it into the bargain. Whydidn't you turn her out of the house?' 'How could I?' said Berlioz inbroken tones, 'I love her'" _(Soixante ans de souvenirs_). ]

And Berlioz did nothing--"How could I? I love her. "

One would be hard upon such a man if one was not disarmed by his ownsufferings. But let us go on. I should have liked to pass over thesetraits, but I have no right to; I must show you the extraordinaryfeebleness of the man's character. "Man's character, " did I say? No, itwas the character of a woman without a will, the victim of hernerves. [21]

[Footnote 21: From this woman's nature came his love of revenge, "athing needless, and yet necessary, " he said to his friend Hiller, who, after having made him write the _Symphonie fantastique_ to spiteHenrietta Smithson, next made him write the wretched fantasia _Euphonia_to spite Camille Moke, now Mme. Pleyel. One would feel obliged to drawmore attention to the way he often adorned or perverted the truth if onedid not feel it arose from his irrepressible and glowing imagination farmore than from any intention to mislead; for I believe his real natureto have been a-very straightforward one. I will quote the story of hisfriend Crispino, a young countryman from Tivoli, as a characteristicexample. Berlioz says in his _Mémoires_ (I, 229): "One day when Crispinowas lacking in respect I made-him a present of two shirts, a pair oftrousers, and three good kicks behind. " In a note he added, "This is alie, and is the result of an artist's tendency to aim at effect. I neverkicked Crispino. " But Berlioz took care afterwards to omit this note. One attaches as little importance to his other small boasts as to thisone. The errors in the _Mémoires_ have been greatly exaggerated; andbesides, Berlioz is the first to warn his readers that he only wrotewhat pleased him, and in his preface says that he is not writing hisConfessions. Can one blame him for that?]

 * * * * *

Such people are destined to unhappiness; and if they make other peoplesuffer, one may be sure that it is only half of what they sufferthemselves. They have a peculiar gift for attracting and gathering uptrouble; they savour sorrow like wine, and do not lose a drop of it. Life seemed desirous that Berlioz should be steeped in suffering; andhis misfortunes were so real that it would be unnecessary to add to themany exaggerations that history has handed down to us. 

People find fault with Berlioz's continual complaints; and I, too, findin them a lack of virility and almost a lack of dignity. To allappearances, he had far fewer material reasons for unhappiness than--Iwon't say Beethoven--Wagner and other great men, past, present, andfuture. When thirty-five years old he had achieved glory; and Paganiniproclaimed him Beethoven's successor. What more could he want? He wasdiscussed by the public, disparaged by a Scudo and an Adolphus Adam, andthe theatre only opened its doors to him with difficulty. It was reallysplendid!

But a careful examination of facts, such as that made by M. JulienTiersot, shows the stifling mediocrity and hardship of his life. Therewere, first of all, his material cares. When thirty-six years old"Beethoven's successor" had a fixed salary of fifteen hundred francs asassistant keeper of the Conservatoire Library, and not quite as much forhis contributions to the _Debits_-contributions which exasperated andhumiliated him, and were one of the crosses of his life, as they obligedhim to speak anything but the truth. [22]

[Footnote 22: _Mémoires_, II, 158. The heartaches expressed in thischapter will be felt by every artist. ]

That made a total of three thousand francs, hardly gained on which hehad to keep a wife and child--"_même deux_, " as M. Tiersot says. Heattempted a festival at the Opera; the result was three hundred andsixty francs loss. He organised a festival at the 1844 Exhibition; thereceipts were thirty-two thousand francs, out of which he got eighthundred francs. He had the _Damnation de Faust_ performed; no one cameto it, and he was ruined. Things went better in Russia; but the managerwho brought him to England became bankrupt. He was haunted by thoughtsof rents and doctors' bills. Towards the end of his life his financialaffairs mended a little, and a year before his death he uttered thesesad words: "I suffer a great deal, but I do not want to die now--I haveenough to live upon. "

One of the most tragic episodes of his life is that of the symphonywhich he did not write because of his poverty. One wonders why the pagethat finishes his _Mémoires_ is not better known, for it touches thedepths of human suffering. 

At the time when his wife's health was causing him most anxiety, therecame to him one night an inspiration for a symphony. The first part ofit--an allegro in two-four time in A minor--was ringing in his head. Hegot up and began to write, and then he thought, "If I begin this bit, I shall have to write the whole symphony. It will be a big thing, and I shall have to spend three or four months over it. That means I shall write no more articles and earn no money. And when the symphony is finished I shall not be able to resist the temptation of having it copied (which will mean an expense of a thousand or twelve hundred francs), and then of having it played. I shall give a concert, and the receipts will barely cover half the cost. I shall lose what I have not got; the poor invalid will lack necessities; and I shall be able to pay neither my personal expenses nor my son's fees when he goes on board ship. .. . These thoughts made me shudder, and I threw down my pen, saying, 'Bah! to-morrow I shall have forgotten the symphony. ' The next night I heard the allegro clearly, and seemed to see it written down. I was filled with feverish agitation; I sang the theme; I was going to get up . .. But the reflections of the day before restrained me; I steeled myself against the temptation, and clung to the thought of forgetting it. At last I went to sleep; and the next day, on waking, all remembrance of it had, indeed, gone for ever. "[23]

That page makes one shudder. Suicide is less distressing. NeitherBeethoven nor Wagner suffered such tortures. What would Wagner have doneon a like occasion? He would have written the symphony withoutdoubt--and he would have been right. But poor Berlioz, who was weakenough to sacrifice his duty to love, was, alas! also heroic enough tosacrifice his genius to duty. [24]

[Footnote 23: _Mémoires_, II, 349. ]

[Footnote 24: Berlioz has already touchingly replied to any reproachesthat might be made in the words that follow the story I have quoted. "'Coward!' some young enthusiast will say, 'you ought to have writtenit; you should have been bold. ' Ah, young man, you who call me cowarddid not have to look upon what I did; had you done so you, too, wouldhave had no choice. My wife was there, half dead, only able to moan; shehad to have three nurses, and a doctor every day to visit her; and I wassure of the disastrous result of any musical adventure. No, I was not acoward; I know I was only human. I like to believe that I honoured artin proving that she had left me enough reason to distinguish betweencourage and cruelty" (_Mémoires_, II, 350). ]

And in spite of all this material misery and the sorrow of beingmisunderstood, people speak of the glory he enjoyed. What did hiscompeers think of him--at least, those who called themselves such? Heknew that Mendelssohn, whom he loved and esteemed, and who styledhimself his "good friend, " despised him and did not recognise hisgenius. [25] The large-hearted Schumann, who was, with the exception ofLiszt, [26] the only person who intuitively felt his greatness, admittedthat he used sometimes to wonder if he ought to be looked upon as "agenius or a musical adventurer. "[27]

[Footnote 25: In a note in the _Mémoires_, Berlioz publishes a letter ofMendelssohn's which protests his "good friendship, " and he writes thesebitter words: "I have just seen in a volume of Mendelssohn's Letterswhat his friendship for me consisted of. He says to his mother, in whatis plainly a description of myself, '---- is a perfect caricature, without a spark of talent . .. There are times when I should like toswallow him up'" (_Mémoires_, II, 48). Berlioz did not add thatMendelssohn also said: "They pretend that Berlioz seeks lofty ideals inart. I don't think so at all. What he wants is to get himself married. "The injustice of these insulting words will disgust all those whoremember that when Berlioz married Henrietta Smithson she brought asdowry nothing but debts; and that he had only three hundred francshimself, which a friend had lent him. ]

[Footnote 26: Liszt repudiated him later. ]

[Footnote 27: Written in an article on the _Ouverture de Waverley_(_Neue Zeitschrift für Musik_). ]

Wagner, who treated his symphonies with scorn before he had even readthem, [28] who certainly understood his genius, and who deliberatelyignored him, threw himself into Berlioz's arms when he met him in Londonin 1855. "He embraced him with fervour, and wept; and hardly had he lefthim when _The Musical World_ published passages from his book, _Oper undDrama_, where he pulls Berlioz to pieces mercilessly. "[29] In France, the young Gounod, _doli fabricator Epeus_, as Berlioz called him, lavished flattering words upon him, but spent his time in finding faultwith his compositions, [30] or in trying to supplant him at the theatre. At the Opera he was passed over in favour of a Prince Poniatowski. 

[Footnote 28: Wagner, who had criticised Berlioz since 1840, and whopublished a detailed study of his works in his _Oper und Drama_ in 1851, wrote to Liszt in 1855: "I own that it would interest me very much tomake the acquaintance of Berlioz's symphonies, and I should like to seethe scores. If you have them, will you lend them to me?"]

[Footnote 29: See Berlioz's letter, cited by J. Tiersot, _Hector Berliozet la société de son temps_, p. 275. ]

[Footnote 30: _Roméo, Faust, La Nonne sanglante_. ]

He presented himself three times at the Academy, and was beaten thefirst time by Onslow, the second time by Clapisson, and the third timehe conquered by a majority of one vote against Panseron, Vogel, Leborne, and others, including, as always, Gounod. He died before the _Damnationde Faust_ was appreciated in France, although it was the most remarkablemusical composition France had produced. They hissed its performance?Not at all; "they were merely indifferent"--it is Berlioz who tells usthis. It passed unnoticed. He died before he had seen _Les Troyens_played in its entirety, though it was one of the noblest works of theFrench lyric theatre that had been composed since the death ofGluck. [31] But there is no need to be astonished. To hear these worksto-day one must go to Germany. And although the dramatic work of Berliozhas found its Bayreuth--thanks to Mottl, to Karlsruhe and Munich--andthe marvellous _Benvenuto Cellini_ has been played in twenty Germantowns, [32] and regarded as a masterpiece by Weingartner and RichardStrauss, what manager of a French theatre would think of producing suchworks?

But this is not all. What was the bitterness of failure compared withthe great anguish of death? Berlioz saw all those he loved die one afterthe other: his father, his mother, Henrietta Smithson, Marie Recio. Thenonly his son Louis remained. 

[Footnote 31: I shall content myself here with noting a fact, which Ishall deal with more fully in another essay at the end of this book: itis the decline of musical taste in France--and, I rather think, in allEurope--since 1835 or 1840. Berlioz says in his _Mémoires_: "Since thefirst performance of _Roméo et Juliette_ the indifference of the Frenchpublic for all that concerns art and literature has grown incredibly"(_Mémoires_, II, 263). Compare the shouts of excitement and the tearsthat were drawn from the dilettanti of 1830 (_Mémoires_, I, 81), at theperformances of Italian operas or Gluck's works, with the coldness ofthe public between 1840 and 1870. A mantle of ice covered art then. Howmuch Berlioz must have suffered. In Germany the great romantic age wasdead. Only Wagner remained to give life to music; and he drained allthat was left in Europe of love and enthusiasm for music. Berlioz diedtruly of asphyxia. ]

[Footnote 32: Here is an official list of the towns where _Benvenuto_has been played since 1879 (I am indebted for this information to M. Victor Chapót, Berlioz's grandnephew). They are, in alphabetical order:Berlin, Bremen, Brunswick, Dresden, Frankfort-On-Main, Freiburg-im-Breisgau, Hamburg, Hanover, Karlsruhe, Leipzig, Mannheim, Metz, Munich, Prague, Schwerin, Stettin, Strasburg, Stuttgart, Vienna, and Weimar. ]

He was the captain of a merchant vessel; a clever, good-hearted boy, but restless and nervous, irresolute and unhappy, like his father. "Hehas the misfortune to resemble me in everything, " said Berlioz; "and welove each other like a couple of twins. "[33] "Ah, my poor Louis, " hewrote to him, "what should I do without you?" A few months afterwards helearnt that Louis had died in far-away seas. 

He was now alone. [34] There were no more friendly voices; all that heheard was a hideous duet between loneliness and weariness, sung in hisear during the bustle of the day and in the silence of the night. [35] Hewas wasted with disease. In 1856, at Weimar, following great fatigue, hewas seized with an internal malady. It began with great mental distress;he used to sleep in the streets. He suffered constantly; he was like "atree without leaves, streaming with rain. " At the end of 1861, thedisease was in an acute stage. He had attacks of pain sometimes lastingthirty hours, during which he would writhe in agony in his bed. "I livein the midst of my physical pain, overwhelmed with weariness. Death isvery slow. "[36]

[Footnote 33: _Mémoires_, II, 420. ]

[Footnote 34: "I do not know how Berlioz has managed to be cut off likethis. He has neither friends nor followers; neither the warm sun ofpopularity nor the pleasant shade of friendship" (Liszt to the Princessof Wittgenstein, 16 May, 1861). ]

[Footnote 35: In a letter to Bennet he says, "I am weary, I amweary. .. . " How often does this piteous cry sound in his letters towardsthe end of his life. "I feel I am going to die. .. . I am weary untodeath" (21 August, 1868--six months before his death). ]

[Footnote 36: Letter to Asger Hammerick, 1865. ]

Worst of all, in the heart of his misery, there was nothing thatcomforted him. He believed in nothing--neither in God nor immortality. 

 "I have no faith. .. . I hate all philosophy and everything that resembles it, whether religious or otherwise. .. . I am as incapable of making a medicine of faith as of having faith in medicine. "[37]

 "God is stupid and cruel in his complete indifference. "[38]

He did not believe in beauty or honour, in mankind or himself. 

 "Everything passes. Space and time consume beauty, youth, love, glory, genius. Human life is nothing; death is no better. Worlds are born and die like ourselves. All is nothing. Yes, yes, yes! All is nothing. .. . To love or hate, enjoy or suffer, admire or sneer, live or die--what does it matter? There is nothing in greatness or littleness, beauty or ugliness. Eternity is indifferent; indifference is eternal. "[39]

 "I am weary of life; and I am forced to see that belief in absurdities is necessary to human minds, and that it is born in them as insects are born in swamps. "[40]

[Footnote 37: Letters to the Princess of Wittgenstein, 22 July, 21September, 1862; and August, 1864. ]

[Footnote 38: _Mémoires_, II, 335. He shocked Mendelssohn, and evenWagner, by his irreligion. (See Berlioz's letter to Wagner, 10September, 1855. )]

[Footnote 39: _Les Grotesques de la Musique_, pp. 295-6. ]

[Footnote 40: Letter to the Abbé Girod. See Hippeau, _Berlioz intime_, p. 434. ]

 "You make me laugh with your old words about a mission to fulfil. What a missionary! But there is in me an inexplicable mechanism which works in spite of all arguments; and I let it work because I cannot stop it. What disgusts me most is the certainty that beauty does not exist for the majority of these human monkeys. "[41]

 "The unsolvable enigma of the world, the existence of evil and pain, the fierce madness of mankind, and the stupid cruelty that it inflicts hourly and everywhere on the most inoffensive beings and on itself--all this has reduced me to the state of unhappy and forlorn resignation of a scorpion surrounded by live coals. The most I can do is not to wound myself with my own dart. "[42]

 "I am in my sixty-first year; and I have no more hopes or illusions or aspirations. I am alone; and my contempt for the stupidity and dishonesty of men, and my hatred for their wicked cruelty, are at their height. Every hour I say to Death, 'When you like!' What is he waiting for?"[43]

[Footnote 41: Letter to Bennet. He did not believe in patriotism. "Patriotism? Fetichism! Cretinism!" (_Mémoires_, II, 261). ]

[Footnote 42: Letter to the Princess of Wittgenstein, 22 July, 1862. ]

[Footnote 43: _Mémoires_, II, 391. ]

And yet he fears the death he invites. It is the strongest, thebitterest, the truest feeling he has. No musician since old Roland deLassus has feared it with that intensity. Do you remember Herod'ssleepless nights in _L'Enfance du Christ_, or Faust's soliloquy, or theanguish of Cassandra, or the burial of Juliette?--through all this youwill find the whispered fear of annihilation. The wretched man washaunted by this fear, as a letter published by M. Julien Tiersotshows:--

 "My favourite walk, especially when it is raining, really raining in torrents, is the cemetery of Montmartre, which is near my house. I often go there; there is much that draws me to it. The day before yesterday I passed two hours in the cemetery; I found a comfortable seat on a costly tomb, and I went to sleep. .. . Paris is to me a cemetery and her pavements are tomb-stones. Everywhere are memories of friends or enemies that are dead. .. . I do nothing but suffer unceasing pain and unspeakable weariness. I wonder night and day if I shall die in great pain or with little of it--I am not foolish enough to hope to die without any pain at all. Why are we not dead?"[44]

His music is like these mournful words; it is perhaps even moreterrible, more gloomy, for it breathes death. [45] What a contrast: asoul greedy of life and preyed upon by death. It is this that makes hislife such an awful tragedy. When Wagner met Berlioz he heaved a sigh ofrelief--he had at last found a man more unhappy than himself. [46]

[Footnote 44: Letters to the Princess of Wittgenstein, 22 January, 1859;30 August, 1864; 13 July, 1866; and to A. Morel, 21 August, 1864. ]

[Footnote 45: " . .. Qui viderit illas De lacrymis factas sentiet esse meis, "wrote Berlioz, as an inscription for his _Tristes_ in 1854. ]

[Footnote 46: "One instantly recognises a companion in misfortune; and Ifound I was a happier man than Berlioz" (Wagner to Liszt, 5 July, 1855). ]

On the threshold of death he turned in despair to the one ray of lightleft him--_Stella montis_, the inspiration of his childish love;Estelle, now old, a grandmother, withered by age and grief. He made apilgrimage to Meylan, near Grenoble, to see her. He was then sixty-oneyears old and she was nearly seventy. "The past! the past! O Time!Nevermore! Nevermore!"[47]

Nevertheless, he loved her, and loved her desperately. How pathetic itis. One has little inclination to smile when one sees the depths of thatdesolate heart. Do you think he did not see, as clearly as you or Iwould see, the wrinkled old face, the indifference of age, the "_tristeraison_, " in her he idealised? Remember, he was the most ironical ofmen. But he did not wish to see these things, he wished to cling to alittle love, which would help him to live in the wilderness of life. 

 "There is nothing real in this world but that which lives in the heart. .. . My life has been wrapped up in the obscure little village where she lives. .. . Life is only endurable when I tell myself: 'This autumn I shall spend a month beside her. ' I should die in this hell of a Paris if she did not allow me to write to her, and if from time to time I had not letters from her. "

So he spoke to Legouvé; and he sat down on a stone in a Paris street, and wept. In the meantime, the old lady did not understand thisfoolishness; she hardly tolerated it, and sought to undeceive him. 

[Footnote 47: _Mémoires_, II, 396. ]

 "When one's hair is white one must leave dreams--even those of friendship. .. . Of what use is it to form ties which, though they hold to-day, may break to-morrow?"

What were his dreams? To live with her? No; rather to die beside her; tofeel she was by his side when death should come. 

 "To be at your feet, my head on your knees, your two hands in mine--so to finish. "[48]

He was a little child grown old, and felt bewildered and miserable andfrightened before the thought of death. 

Wagner, at the same age, a victor, worshipped, flattered, and--if we areto believe the Bayreuth legend--crowned with prosperity; Wagner, sad andsuffering, doubting his achievements, feeling the inanity of his bitterfight against the mediocrity of the world, had "fled far from theworld"[49] and thrown himself into religion; and when a friend looked athim in surprise as he was saying grace at table, he answered: "Yes, Ibelieve in my Saviour. "[50]

[Footnote 48: _Mémoires_, II, 415. ]

[Footnote 49: "Yes, it is to that escape from the world that _Parsifal_owes its birth and growth. What man can, during a whole lifetime, gazeinto the depths of this world with a calm reason and a cheerful heart?When he sees murder and rapine organised and legalised by a system oflies, impostures, and hypocrisy, will he not avert his eyes and shudderwith disgust?" (Wagner, _Representations of the Sacred Drama of Parsifalat Bayreuth, in 1882_. )]

[Footnote 50: The scene was described to me by his friend, Malwida vonMeysenbug, the calm and fearless author of _Mémoires d'une Idéaliste_. ]

Poor beings! Conquerors of the world, conquered and broken!

But of the two deaths, how much sadder is that of the artist who waswithout a faith, and who had neither strength nor stoicism enough to behappy without one; who slowly died in that little room in the rue deCalais amid the distracting noise of an indifferent and even hostileParis;[51] who shut himself up in savage silence; who saw no loved facebending over him in his last moments; who had not the comfort of beliefin his work;[52] who could not think calmly of what he had done, norlook proudly back over the road he had trodden, nor rest content in thethought of a life well lived; and who began and closed his _Mémoires_with Shakespeare's gloomy words, and repeated them when dying:--

 "Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. "[53]

[Footnote 51: "I have only blank walls before my windows. On the side ofthe street a pug dog has been barking for an hour, a parrot screaming, and a parroqueet imitating the chirp of sparrows. On the side of theyard the washerwomen are singing, and another parroqueet criesincessantly, 'Shoulder arrms!' How long the day is!"

"The maddening noise of carriages shakes the silence of the night. Pariswet and muddy! Parisian Paris! Now everything is quiet . .. She issleeping the sleep of the unjust" (Written to Ferrand, _Lettresintimes_, pp. 269 and 302). ]

[Footnote 52: He used to say that nothing would remain of his work; thathe had deceived himself; and that he would have liked to burn hisscores. ]

[Footnote 53: Blaze de Bury met him one autumn evening, on the quay, just before his death, as he was returning from the Institute. "His facewas pale, his figure wasted and bent, and his expression dejected andnervous; one might have taken him for a walking shadow. Even his eyes, those large round hazel eyes, had extinguished their fire. For a secondhe clasped my hand in his own thin, lifeless one, and repeated, in avoice that was hardly more than a whisper, Aeschylus's words: 'Oh, thislife of man! When he is happy a shadow is enough to disturb him; andwhen he is unhappy his trouble may be wiped away, as with a wet sponge, and all is forgotten'" (_Musiciens d'hier et d'aujourd'hui_). ]

Such was the unhappy and irresolute heart that found itself united toone of the most daring geniuses in the world. It is a striking exampleof the difference that may exist between genius and greatness--for thetwo words are not synonymous. When one speaks of greatness, one speaksof greatness of soul, nobility of character, firmness of will, and, above all, balance of mind. I can understand how people deny theexistence of these qualities in Berlioz; but to deny his musical genius, or to cavil about his wonderful power--and that is what they do daily inParis--is lamentable and ridiculous. Whether he attracts one or not, athimbleful of some of his work, a single part in one of his works, alittle bit of the _Fantastique_ or the overture of _Benvenuto_, revealmore genius--I am not afraid to say it--than all the French music of hiscentury. I can understand people arguing about him in a country thatproduced Beethoven and Bach; but with us in France, who can we set upagainst him? Gluck and César Franck were much greater men, but they werenever geniuses of his stature. If genius is a creative force, I cannotfind more than four or five geniuses in the world who rank above him. When I have named Beethoven, Mozart, Bach, Händel, and Wagner, I do notknow who else is superior to Berlioz; I do not even know who is hisequal. 

He is not only a musician, he is music itself. He does not command hisfamiliar spirit, he is its slave. Those who know his writings know howhe was simply possessed and exhausted by his musical emotions. They werereally fits of ecstasy or convulsions. At first "there was feverishexcitement; the veins beat violently and tears flowed freely. Then camespasmodic contractions of the muscles, total numbness of the feet andhands, and partial paralysis of the nerves of sight and hearing; he sawnothing, heard nothing; he was giddy and half faint. " And in the case ofmusic that displeased him, he suffered, on the contrary, from "a painfulsense of bodily disquiet and even from nausea. "[54]

The possession that music held over his nature shows itself clearly inthe sudden outbreak of his genius. [55] His family opposed the idea ofhis becoming a musician; and until he was twenty-two or twenty-threeyears old his weak will sulkily gave way to their wishes. In obedienceto his father he began his studies in medicine at Paris. One evening heheard _Les Danaïdes_ of Salieri. It came upon him like a thunderclap. Heran to the Conservatoire library and read Gluck's scores. 

[Footnote 54: _A travers chants_, pp. 8-9. ]

[Footnote 55: In truth, this genius was smouldering since his childhood;it was there from the beginning; and the proof of it lies in the factthat he used for his _Ouverture des Francs-Juges_ and for the _Symphoniefantastique_ airs and phrases of quintets which he had written whentwelve years old (see _Mémoires_, I, 16-18). ]

He forgot to eat and drink; he was like a man in a frenzy. Aperformance of _Iphigénie en Tauride_ finished him. He studied underLesueur and then at the Conservatoire. The following year, 1827, hecomposed _Les Francs-Juges_; two years afterwards the _Huit scènes deFaust_, which was the nucleus of the future _Damnation_;[56] three yearsafterwards, the _Symphonie fantastique_ (commenced in 1830). [57] And hehad not yet got the _Prix de Rome_! Add to this that in 1828 he hadalready ideas for _Roméo et Juliette_, and that he had written a part of_Lelio_ in 1829. Can one find elsewhere a more dazzling musical debut?Compare that of Wagner who, at the same age, was shyly writing _LesFées, Défense d'aimer_, and _Rienzi_. 

[Footnote 56: The _Huit scènes de Faust_ are taken from Goethe'stragedy, translated by _Gérard de Nerval_, and they include: (1) _Chantsde la fête de Pâques_; (2) _Paysans sous les tilleuls_; (3) _Concert desSylphes_; (4 and 5) _Taverne d'Auerbach_, with the two songs of the Ratand the Flea; (6) _Chanson du roi de Thulé_; (7) _Romance deMarguerite_, "D'amour, l'ardente flamme, " and _Choeur de soldats_; (8)_Sérénade de Méphistophélès_--that is to say, the most celebrated andcharacteristic pages of the _Damnation_ (see M. Prudhomme's essays on_Le Cycle de Berlioz_). ]

[Footnote 57: One could hardly find a better manifestation of the soulof a youthful musical genius than that in certain letters written atthis time; in particular the letter written to Ferrand on 28 June, 1828, with its feverish postscript. What a life of rich and overflowingvigour! It is a joy to read it; one drinks at the source of lifeitself. ]

He wrote them at the same age, but ten years later; for _Les Fées_appeared in 1833, when Berlioz had already written the _Fantastique_, the _Huit scènes de Faust, Lelio_, and _Harold; Rienzi_ was only playedin 1842, after _Benvenuto_ (1835), _Le Requiem_ (1837), _Roméo_ (1839), _La Symphonie funèbre et triomphale_ (1840)--that is to say, whenBerlioz had finished all his great works, and after he had achieved hismusical revolution. And that revolution was effected alone, without amodel, without a guide. What could he have heard beyond the operas ofGluck and Spontini while he was at the Conservatoire? At the time whenhe composed the _Ouverture des Francs-Juges_ even the name of Weber wasunknown to him, [58] and of Beethoven's compositions he had only heard an_andante_. [59]

Truly, he is a miracle and the most startling phenomenon in the historyof nineteenth-century music. His audacious power dominates all his age;and in the face of such a genius, who would not follow Paganini'sexample, and hail him as Beethoven's only successor?[60] Who does notsee what a poor figure the young Wagner cut at that time, working awayin laborious and self-satisfied mediocrity? But Wagner soon made up forlost ground; for he knew what he wanted, and he wanted it obstinately. 

[Footnote 58: _Mémoires_, I, 70. ]

[Footnote 59: _Ibid_. To make amends for this he published, in 1829, abiographical notice of Beethoven, in which his appreciation of him isremarkably in advance of his age. He wrote there: "The _Choral Symphony_is the culminating point of Beethoven's genius, " and he speaks of theFourth Symphony in C sharp minor with great discernment. ]

[Footnote 60: Beethoven died in 1827, the year when Berlioz was writinghis first important work, the _Ouverture des Francs-Juges_. ]

The zenith of Berlioz's genius was reached, when he was thirty-fiveyears old, with the _Requiem_ and _Roméo_. They are his two mostimportant works, and are two works about which one may feel verydifferently. For my part, I am very fond of the one, and I dislike theother; but both of them open up two great new roads in art, and both areplaced like two gigantic arches on the triumphal way of the revolutionthat Berlioz started. I will return to the subject of these works later. 

But Berlioz was already getting old. His daily cares and stormy domesticlife, [61] his disappointments and passions, his commonplace and oftendegrading work, soon wore him out and, finally, exhausted his power. "Would you believe it?" he wrote to his friend Ferrand, "that which usedto stir me to transports of musical passion now fills me withindifference, or even disdain. I feel as if I were descending a mountainat a great rate. Life is so short; I notice that thoughts of the endhave been with me for some time past. " In 1848, at forty-five years old, he wrote in his _Mémoires_: "I find myself so old and tired and lackinginspiration. " At forty-five years old, Wagner had patiently worked outhis theories and was feeling his power; at forty-five he was writing_Tristan_ and _The Music of the Future_. Abused by critics, unknown tothe public, "he remained calm, in the belief that he would be master ofthe musical world in fifty years' time. "[62]

[Footnote 61: He left Henrietta Smithson in 1842; she died in 1854. ]

[Footnote 62: Written by Berlioz himself, in irony, in a letter of1855. ]

Berlioz was disheartened. Life had conquered him. It was not that he hadlost any of his artistic mastery; on the contrary, his compositionsbecame more and more finished; and nothing in his earlier work attainedthe pure beauty of some of the pages of _L'Enfance du Christ_ (1850-4), or of _Les Troyens_ (1855-63). But he was losing his power; and hisintense feeling, his revolutionary ideas, and his inspiration (which inhis youth had taken the place of the confidence he lacked) were failinghim. He now lived on the past--the _Huit scènes de Faust_ (1828) heldthe germs of _La Damnation de Faust_ (1846); since 1833, he had beenthinking of _Béatrice et Bénédict_ (1862); the ideas in _Les Troyens_were inspired by his childish worship of Virgil, and had been with himall his life. But with what difficulty he now finished his task! He hadonly taken seven months to write _Roméo_, and "on account of not beingable to write the _Requiem_ fast enough, he had adopted a kind ofmusical shorthand";[63] but he took seven or eight years to write _LesTroyens_, alternating between moods of enthusiasm and disgust, andfeeling indifference and doubt about his work. He groped his wayhesitatingly and unsteadily; he hardly understood what he was doing. Headmired the more mediocre pages of his work: the scene of the Laocoon, the finale of the last act of the _Les Troyens à Troie_, the last scenewith Aeneas in _Les Troyens à Carthage_. [64] The empty pomposities ofSpontini mingle with the loftiest conceptions. One might say that hisgenius became a stranger to him: it was the mechanical work of anunconscious force, like "stalactites in a dripping grotto. " He had noimpetus. It was only a matter of time before the roof of the grottowould give way. One is struck with the mournful despair with which heworks; it is his last will and testament that he is making. And when hehas finished it, he will have finished everything. His work is ended; ifhe lived another hundred years he would not have the heart to addanything more to it. The only thing that remains--and it is what he isabout to do--is to wrap himself in silence and die. 

[Footnote 63: _Mémoires_, I, 307. ]

[Footnote 64: About this time he wrote to Liszt regarding _L'Enfance duChrist_: "I think I have hit upon something good in Herod's scena andair with the soothsayers; it is full of character, and will, I hope, please you. There are, perhaps, more graceful and pleasing things, butwith the exception of the Bethlehem duet, I do not think they have thesame quality of originality" (17 December, 1854). ]

Oh, mournful destiny! There are great men who have outlived theirgenius; but with Berlioz genius outlived desire. His genius was stillthere; one feels it in the sublime pages of the third act of _LesTroyens à Carthage_. But Berlioz had ceased to believe in his power; hehad lost faith in everything. His genius was dying for want ofnourishment; it was a flame above an empty tomb. At the same hour of hisold age the soul of Wagner sustained its glorious flight; and, havingconquered everything, it achieved a supreme victory in renouncingeverything for its faith. And the divine songs of Parsifal resounded asin a splendid temple, and replied to the cries of the suffering Amfortasby the blessed words: "_Selig in Glauben! Selig in Liebe_!"

II

Berlioz's work did not spread itself evenly over his life; it wasaccomplished in a few years. It was not like the course of a greatriver, as with Wagner and Beethoven; it was a burst of genius, whoseflames lit up the whole sky for a little while, and then died graduallydown. [65] Let me try to tell you about this wonderful blaze. 

Some of Berlioz's musical qualities are so striking that it isunnecessary to dwell upon them here. His instrumental colouring, sointoxicating and exciting, [66] his extraordinary discoveries concerningtimbre, his inventions of new nuances (as in the famous combining offlutes and trombones in the _Hostias et preces_ of the _Requiem_, andthe curious use of the harmonics of violins and harps), and his huge andnebulous orchestra--all this lends itself to the most subtle expressionof thought. [67]

[Footnote 65: In 1830, old Rouget de Lisle called Berlioz, "a volcano ineruption" (_Mémoires_, I, 158). ]

[Footnote 66: M. Camille Saint-Saëns wrote in his _Portraits etSouvenirs_, 1900: "Whoever reads Berlioz's scores before hearing themplayed can have no real idea of their effect. The instruments appear tobe arranged in defiance of all common sense; and it would seem, to useprofessional slang, that _cela ne dut pas sonner_, but _cela sonne_wonderfully. If we find here and there obscurities of style, they do notappear in the orchestra; light streams into it and plays there as in thefacets of a diamond. "]

[Footnote 67: See the excellent essay of H. Lavoix, in his _Histoire del'Instrumentation_. It should be noticed that Berlioz's observations inhis _Traité d'instrumentation et d'orchestration modernes_ (1844) havenot been lost upon Richard Strauss, who has just published a Germanedition of the work, and some of whose most famous orchestral effectsare realisations of Berlioz's ideas. ]

Think of the effect that such works must have produced at that period. Berlioz was the first to be astonished when he heard them for the firsttime. At the _Ouverture des Francs-Juges_ he wept and tore his hair, andfell sobbing on the kettledrums. At the performance of his _Tuba mirum_, in Berlin, he nearly fainted. The composer who most nearly approachedhim was Weber, and, as we have already seen, Berlioz only knew him latein life. But how much less rich and complex is Weber's music, in spiteof its nervous brilliance and dreaming poetry. Above all, Weber is muchmore mundane and more of a classicist; he lacks Berlioz's revolutionarypassion and plebeian force; he is less expressive and less grand. 

How did Berlioz come to have this genius for orchestration almost fromthe very first? He himself says that his two masters at theConservatoire taught him nothing in point of instrumentation:--

 "Lesueur had only very limited ideas about the art. Reicha knew the particular resources of most of the wind instruments; but I think that he had not very advanced ideas on the subject of grouping them. "

Berlioz taught himself. He used to read the score of an opera while itwas being performed. 

 "It was thus, " he says, [68] "that I began to get familiar with the use of the orchestra, and to know its expression and timbre, as well as the range and mechanism of most of the instruments. By carefully comparing the effect produced with the means used to produce it, I learned the hidden bond which unites musical expression to the special art of instrumentation; but no one put me in the way of this. The study of the methods of the three modern masters, Beethoven, Weber, and Spontini, the impartial examination of the traditions of instrumentation and of little-used forms and combinations, conversations with virtuosi, and the effects I made them try on their different instruments, together with a little instinct, did the rest for me. "[69]

[Footnote 68: One may judge of this instinct by one fact: he wrote theovertures of _Les Francs-Juges_ and _Waverley_ without really knowing ifit were possible to play them. "I was so ignorant, " he says, "of themechanism of certain instruments, that after having written the solo inD flat for the trombone in the Introduction of _Les Francs-Juges_, Ifeared it would be terribly difficult to play. So I went, very anxious, to one of the trombonists of the Opera orchestra. He looked at thepassage and reassured me. 'The key of D flat is, ' he said, 'one of thepleasantest for that instrument; and you can count on a splendid effectfor that passage'" _(Mémoires_, I, 63). ]

[Footnote 69: _Mémoires_, I, 64. ]

That he was an originator in this direction no one doubts. And no onedisputes, as a rule, "his devilish cleverness, " as Wagner scornfullycalled it, or remains insensible to his skill and mastery in themechanism of expression, and his power over sonorous matter, which makehim, apart from his creative power, a sort of magician of music, a kingof tone and rhythm. This gift is recognised even by his enemies--byWagner, who seeks with some unfairness to restrict his genius withinnarrow limits, and to reduce it to "a structure with wheels of infiniteingenuity and extreme cunning . .. A marvel of mechanism. "[70]

But though there is hardly anyone that Berlioz does not irritate orattract, he always strikes people by his impetuous ardour, his glowingromance, and his seething imagination, all of which makes and willcontinue to make his work one of the most picturesque mirrors of hisage. His frenzied force of ecstasy and despair, his fulness of love andhatred, his perpetual thirst for life, which "in the heart of thedeepest sorrow lights the Catherine wheels and crackers of the wildestjoy"[71]--these are the qualities that stir up the crowds in _Benvenuto_and the armies in the _Damnation_, that shake earth, heaven, and hell, and are never quenched, but remain devouring and "passionate even whenthe subject is far removed from passion, and yet also express sweet andtender sentiments and the deepest calm. "[72]

[Footnote 70: "Berlioz displayed, in calculating the properties ofmechanism, a really astounding scientific knowledge. If the inventors ofour modern industrial machinery are to be considered benefactors ofhumanity to-day, Berlioz deserves to be considered as the true saviourof the musical world; for, thanks to him, musicians can producesurprising effects in music by the varied use of simple mechanicalmeans. .. . Berlioz lies hopelessly buried beneath the ruins of his owncontrivances" (_Oper und Drama_, 1851). ]

[Footnote 71: Letter from Berlioz to Ferrand. ]

[Footnote 72: "The chief characteristics of my music are passionateexpression, inward warmth, rhythmic in pulses, and unforeseen effects. When I speak of passionate expression, I mean an expression thatdesperately strives to reproduce the inward feeling of its subject, evenwhen the theme is contrary to passion, and deals with gentle emotions orthe deepest calm. It is this kind of expression that may be found in_L'Enfance du Christ_, and, above all, in the scene of _Le Ciel_ in the_Damnation de Faust_ and in the _Sanctus_ of the _Requiem_" (_Mémoires_, II, 361). ]

Whatever one may think of this volcanic force, of this torrential streamof youth and passion, it is impossible to deny them; one might as welldeny the sun. 

And I shall not dwell on Berlioz's love of Nature, which, as M. Prudhomme shows us, is the soul of a composition like the _Damnation_and, one might say, of all great compositions. No musician, with theexception of Beethoven, has loved Nature so profoundly. Wagner himselfdid not realise the intensity of emotion which she roused inBerlioz, [73] and how this feeling impregnated the music of the_Damnation_, of _Roméo_, and of _Les Troyens_. 

[Footnote 73: "So you are in the midst of melting glaciers in your_Niebelungen_! To be writing in the presence of Nature herself must besplendid. It is an enjoyment which I am denied. Beautiful landscapes, lofty peaks, or great stretches of sea, absorb me instead of evokingideas in me. I feel, but I cannot express what I feel. I can only paintthe moon when I see its reflection in the bottom of a well" (Berlioz toWagner, 10 September, 1855). ]

But this genius had other characteristics which are less well known, though they are not less unusual. The first is his sense of pure beauty. Berlioz's exterior romanticism must not make us blind to this. He had aVirgilian soul; and if his colouring recalls that of Weber, his designhas often an Italian suavity. Wagner never had this love of beauty inthe Latin sense of the word. Who has understood the Southern nature, beautiful form, and harmonious movement like Berlioz? Who, since Gluck, has recognised so well the secret of classical beauty? Since _Orfeo_ wascomposed, no one has carved in music a bas-relief so perfect as theentrance of Andromache in the second act of _Les Troyens à Troie_. In_Les Troyens à Carthage_, the fragrance of the Aeneid is shed over thenight of love, and we see the luminous sky and hear the murmur of thesea. Some of his melodies are like statues, or the pure lines ofAthenian friezes, or the noble gesture of beautiful Italian girls, orthe undulating profile of the Albanian hills filled with divinelaughter. He has done more than felt and translated into music thebeauty of the Mediterranean--he has created beings worthy of a Greektragedy. His Cassandre alone would suffice to rank him among thegreatest tragic poets that music has ever known. And Cassandre is aworthy sister of Wagner's Brünnhilde; but she has the advantage ofcoming of a nobler race, and of having a lofty restraint of spirit andaction that Sophocles himself would have loved. 

Not enough attention has been drawn to the classical nobility from whichBerlioz's art so spontaneously springs. It is not fully acknowledgedthat he was, of all nineteenth-century musicians, the one who had in thehighest degree the sense of plastic beauty. Nor do people alwaysrecognise that he was a writer of sweet and flowing melodies. Weingartner expressed the surprise he felt when, imbued with currentprejudice against Berlioz's lack of melodic invention, he opened, bychance, the score of the overture of _Benvenuto_ and found in that shortcomposition, which barely takes ten minutes to play, not one or two, butfour or five melodies of admirable richness and originality:--

"I began to laugh, both with pleasure at having discovered such atreasure, and with annoyance at finding how narrow human judgment is. Here I counted five themes, all of them plastic and expressive ofpersonality; of admirable workmanship, varied in form, working up bydegrees to a climax, and then finishing with strong effect. And thisfrom a composer who was said by critics and the public to be devoid ofcreative power! From that day on there has been for me another greatcitizen in the republic of art. "[74]

[Footnote 74: _Musikführer_, 29 November, 1903. ]

Before this, Berlioz had written in 1864:--

 "It is quite easy for others to convince themselves that, without even limiting me to take a very short melody as the theme of a composition--as the greatest musicians have often done--I have always endeavoured to put a wealth of melody into my compositions. One may, of course, dispute the worth of these melodies, their distinction, originality, or charm--it is not for me to judge them--but to deny their existence is either unfair or foolish. They are often on a large scale; and an immature or short-sighted musical vision may not clearly distinguish their form; or, again, they may be accompanied by secondary melodies which, to a limited vision, may veil the form of the principal ones. Or, lastly, shallow musicians may find these melodies so unlike the funny little things that they call melodies, that they cannot bring themselves to give the same name to both. "[75]

And what a splendid variety there is in these melodies: there is thesong in Gluck's style (Cassandre's airs), the pure German _lied_(Marguerite's song, "D'amour l'ardente flamme"), the Italian melody, after Bellini, in its most limpid and happy form (arietta of Arlequin in_Benvenuto_), the broad Wagnerian phrase (finale of _Roméo_), thefolk-song (chorus of shepherds in _L'Enfance du Christ_), and the freestand most modern recitative (the monologues of Faust), which wasBerlioz's own invention, with its full development, its pliant outline, and its intricate nuances. [76]

[Footnote 75: _Mémoires_, II, 361. ]

[Footnote 76: M. Jean Marnold has remarked this genius for monody inBerlioz in his article on _Hector Berlioz, musicien (Mercure de France_, 15 January, and 1 February, 1905). ]

I have said that Berlioz had a matchless gift for expressing tragicmelancholy, weariness of life, and the pangs of death. In a general way, one may say that he was a great elegist in music. Ambros, who was a verydiscerning and unbiassed critic, said: "Berlioz feels with inwarddelight and profound emotion what no musician, except Beethoven, hasfelt before. " And Heinrich Heine had a keen perception of Berlioz'soriginality when he called him "a colossal nightingale, a lark the sizeof an eagle. " The simile is not only picturesque, but of remarkableaptness. For Berlioz's colossal force is at the service of a forlorn andtender heart; he has nothing of the heroism of Beethoven, or Händel, orGluck, or even Schubert. He has all the charm of an Umbrian painter, asis shown in _L'Enfance du Christ_, as well as sweetness and inwardsadness, the gift of tears, and an elegiac passion. 

 * * * * *

Now I come to Berlioz's great originality, an originality which israrely spoken of, though it makes him more than a great musician, morethan the successor of Beethoven, or, as some call him, the forerunner ofWagner. It is an originality that entitles him to be known, even morefitly than Wagner himself, as the creator of "an art of the future, " theapostle of a new music, which even to-day has hardly made itself felt. 

Berlioz is original in a double sense. By the extraordinary complexityof his genius he touched the two opposite poles of his art, and showedus two entirely different aspects of music--that of a great popular art, and that of music made free. 

We are all enslaved by the musical tradition of the past. Forgenerations we have been so accustomed to carry this yoke that wescarcely notice it. And in consequence of Germany's monopoly of musicsince the end of the eighteenth century, musical traditions--which hadbeen chiefly Italian in the two preceding centuries--now became almostentirely German. We think in German forms: the plan of phrases, theirdevelopment, their balance, and all the rhetoric of music and thegrammar of composition comes to us from foreign thought, slowlyelaborated by German masters. That domination has never been morecomplete or more heavy since Wagner's victory. Then reigned over theworld this great German period--a scaly monster with a thousand arms, whose grasp was so extensive that it included pages, scenes, acts, andwhole dramas in its embrace. We cannot say that French writers have evertried to write in the style of Goethe or Schiller; but French composershave tried and are still trying to write music after the manner ofGerman musicians. 

Why be astonished at it? Let us face the matter plainly. In music wehave not, so to speak, any masters of French style. All our greatestcomposers are foreigners. The founder of the first school of Frenchopera, Lulli, was Florentine; the founder of the second school, Gluck, was German; the two founders of the third school were Rossini, anItalian, and Meyerbeer, a German; the creators of _opéra-comique_ wereDuni, an Italian, and Gretry, a Belgian; Franck, who revolutionised ourmodern school of opera, was also Belgian. These men brought with them astyle peculiar to their race; or else they tried to found, as Gluck did, an "international" style, [77] by which they effaced the more individualcharacteristics of the French spirit. The most French of all thesestyles is the _opéra-comique_, the work of two foreigners, but owingmuch more to the _opéra-bouffe_ than is generally admitted, and, in anycase, representing France very insufficiently. 

[Footnote 77: Gluck himself said this in a letter to the _Mercure deFrance_, February, 1773. ]

Some more rational minds have tried to rid themselves of this Italianand German influence, but have mostly arrived at creating anintermediate Germano-Italian style, of which the operas of Auber andAmbroise Thomas are a type. 

Before Berlioz's time there was really only one master of the first rankwho made a great effort to liberate French music: it was Rameau; and, despite his genius, he was conquered by Italian art. [78]

By force of circumstance, therefore, French music found itself mouldedin foreign musical forms. And in the same way that Germany in theeighteenth century tried to imitate French architecture and literature, so France in the nineteenth century acquired the habit of speakingGerman in music. As most men speak more than they think, even thoughtitself became Germanised; and it was difficult then to discover, throughthis traditional insincerity, the true and spontaneous form of Frenchmusical thought. 

But Berlioz's genius found it by instinct. From the first he strove tofree French music from the oppression of the foreign tradition that wassuffocating it. [79]

[Footnote 78: I am not speaking of the Franco-Flemish masters at the endof the sixteenth century: of Jannequin, Costeley, Claude le Jeune, orMauduit, recently discovered by M. Henry Expert, who are possessed of sooriginal a flavour, and have yet remained almost entirely unknown fromtheir own time to ours. Religious wars bruised France's musicaltraditions and denied some of the grandeur of her art. ]

[Footnote 79: It is amusing to find Wagner comparing Berlioz with Auber, as the type of a true French musician--Auber and his mixed Italian andGerman opera. That shows how Wagner, like most Germans, was incapable ofgrasping the real originality of French music, and how he saw only itsexternals. The best way to find out the musical characteristics of anation is to study its folk-songs. If only someone would devote himselfto the study of French folk-song (and there is no lack of material), people would realise perhaps how much it differs from German folk-song, and how the temperament of the French race shows itself there as beingsweeter and freer, more vigorous and more expressive. ]

He was fitted in every way for the part, even by his deficiencies andhis ignorance. His classical education in music was incomplete. M. Saint-Saëns tells us that "the past did not exist for him; he did notunderstand the old composers, as his knowledge of them was limited towhat he had read about them. " He did not know Bach. Happy ignorance! Hewas able to write oratorios like _L'Enfance du Christ_ without beingworried by memories and traditions of the German masters of oratorio. There are men like Brahms who have been, nearly all their life, butreflections of the past. Berlioz never sought to be anything buthimself. It was thus that he created that masterpiece, _La Fuite enÉgypte_, which sprang from his keen sympathy with the people. 

He had one of the most untrammelled spirits that ever breathed. Libertywas for him a desperate necessity. "Liberty of heart, of mind, ofsoul--of everything. .. . Real liberty, absolute and immense!"[80] Andthis passionate love of liberty, which was his misfortune in life, sinceit deprived him of the comfort of any faith, refused him any refuge forhis thoughts, robbed him of peace, and even of the soft pillow ofscepticism--this "real liberty" formed the unique originality andgrandeur of his musical conceptions. 

[Footnote 80: _Mémoires_, I, 221. ]

 "Music, " wrote Berlioz to C. Lobe, in 1852, "is the most poetic, the most powerful, the most living of all arts. She ought to be the freest, but she is not yet. .. . Modern music is like the classic Andromeda, naked and divinely beautiful. She is chained to a rock on the shores of a vast sea, and awaits the victorious Perseus who shall loose her bonds and break in pieces the chimera called Routine. "

The business was to free music from its limited rhythms and from thetraditional forms and rules that enclosed it;[81] and, above all, itneeded to be free from the domination of speech, and to be released fromits humiliating bondage to poetry. Berlioz wrote to the Princess ofWittgenstein, in 1856:--

[Footnote 81: "Music to-day, in the vigour of her youth, is emancipatedand free and can do what she pleases. Many old rules have no longer anyvogue; they were made by unreflecting minds, or by lovers of routine forother lovers of routine. New needs of the mind, of the heart, and of thesense of hearing, make necessary new endeavours and, in some cases, thebreaking of ancient laws. Many forms have become too hackneyed to bestill adopted. The same thing may be entirely good or entirely bad, according to the use one makes of it, or the reasons one has for makinguse of it. Sound and sonority are secondary to thought, and thought issecondary to feeling and passion. " (These opinions were given withreference to Wagner's concerts in Paris, in 1860, and are taken from _Atravers chants_, p. 312. )

Compare Beethoven's words: "There is no rule that one may not break forthe advancement of beauty. "]

 "I am for free music. Yes, I want music to be proudly free, to be victorious, to be supreme. I want her to take all she can, so that there may be no more Alps or Pyrenees for her. But she must achieve her victories by fighting in person, and not rely upon her lieutenants. I should like her to have, if possible, good verse drawn up in order of battle; but, like Napoleon, she must face the fire herself, and, like Alexander, march in the front ranks of the phalanx. She is so powerful that in some cases she would conquer unaided; for she has the right to say with Medea: 'I, myself, am enough. '"

Berlioz protested vigorously against Gluck's impious theory[82] andWagner's "crime" in making music the slave of speech. Music is thehighest poetry and knows no master. [83] It was for Berlioz, therefore, continually to increase the power of expression in pure music. 

[Footnote 82: Is it necessary to recall the _épître dédicatoire_ of_Alceste_ in 1769, and Gluck's declaration that he "sought to bringmusic to its true function--that of helping poetry to strengthen theexpression of the emotions and the interest of a situation . .. And tomake it what fine colouring and the happy arrangement of light and shadeare to a skilful drawing"?]

[Footnote 83: This revolutionary theory was already Mozart's: "Musicshould reign supreme and make one forget everything else. .. . In an operait is absolutely necessary that Poetry should be Music's obedientdaughter" (Letter to his father, 13 October, 1781). Despairing probablyat being unable to obtain this obedience, Mozart thought seriously ofbreaking up the form of opera, and of putting in its place, in 1778, asort of melodrama (of which Rousseau had given an example in 1773), which he called "duodrama, " where music and poetry were looselyassociated, yet not dependent on each other, but went side by side ontwo parallel roads (Letter of 12 November, 1778). ]

And while Wagner, who was more moderate and a closer follower oftradition, sought to establish a compromise (perhaps an impossible one)between music and speech, and to create the new lyric drama, Berlioz, who was more revolutionary, achieved the dramatic symphony, of which theunequalled model to-day is still _Roméo et Juliette_. 

The dramatic symphony naturally fell foul of all formal theories. Twoarguments were set up against it: one derived from Bayreuth, and by nowan act of faith; the other, current opinion, upheld by the crowd thatspeaks of music without understanding it. 

The first argument, maintained by Wagner, is that music cannot reallyexpress action without the help of speech and gesture. It is in the nameof this opinion that so many people condemn _a priori_ Berlioz's_Roméo_. They think it childish to try and _translate_ action intomusic. I suppose they think it less childish to _illustrate_ an actionby music. Do they think that gesture associates itself very happily withmusic? If only they would try to root up this great fiction, which hasbothered us for the last three centuries; if only they would open theireyes and see--what great men like Rousseau and Tolstoy saw soclearly--the silliness of opera; if only they would see the anomalies ofthe Bayreuth show. In the second act of _Tristan_ there is a celebratedpassage, where Ysolde, burning with desire, is waiting for Tristan; shesees him come at last, and from afar she waves her scarf to theaccompaniment of a phrase repeated several times by the orchestra. Icannot express the effect produced on me by that _imitation_ (for it isnothing else) of a series of sounds by a series of gestures; I can neversee it without indignation or without laughing. The curious thing isthat when one hears this passage at a concert, one sees the gesture. Atthe theatre either one does not "see" it, or it appears childish. Thenatural action becomes stiff when clad in musical armour, and theabsurdity of trying to make the two agree is forced upon one. In themusic of _Rheingold_ one pictures the stature and gait of the giants, and one sees the lightning gleam and the rainbow reflected on theclouds. In the theatre it is like a game of marionettes; and one feelsthe impassable gulf between music and gesture. Music is a world apart. When music wishes to depict the drama, it is not real action which isreflected in it, it is the ideal action transfigured by the spirit, andperceptible only to the inner vision. The worst foolishness is topresent two visions--one for the eyes and one for the spirit. Nearlyalways they kill each other. 

The other argument urged against the symphony with a programme is thepretended classical argument (it is not really classical at all). "Music, " they say, "is not meant to express definite subjects; it isonly fitted for vague ideas. The more indefinite it is, the greater itspower, and the more it suggests. " I ask, What is an indefinite art? Whatis a vague art? Do not the two words contradict each other? Can thisstrange combination exist at all? Can an artist write anything that hedoes not clearly conceive? Do people think he composes at random as hisgenius whispers to him? One must at least say this: A symphony ofBeethoven's is a "definite" work down to its innermost folds; andBeethoven had, if not an exact knowledge, at least a clear intuition ofwhat he was about. His last quartets are descriptive symphonies of hissoul, and very differently carried out from Berlioz's symphonies. Wagnerwas able to analyse one of the former under the name of "A Day withBeethoven. " Beethoven was always trying to translate into music thedepths of his heart, the subtleties of his spirit, which are not to beexplained clearly by words, but which are as definite as words--in fact, more definite; for a word, being an abstract thing, sums up manyexperiences and comprehends many different meanings. Music is a hundredtimes more expressive and exact than speech; and it is not only herright to express particular emotions and subjects, it is her duty. Ifthat duty is not fulfilled, the result is not music--it is nothing atall. 

Berlioz is thus the true inheritor of Beethoven's thought. Thedifference between a work like _Roméo_ and one of Beethoven's symphoniesis that the former, it would seem, endeavours to express objectiveemotions and subjects in music. I do not see why music should not followpoetry in getting away from introspection and trying to paint the dramaof the universe. Shakespeare is as good as Dante. Besides, one may add, it is always Berlioz himself that is discovered in his music: it is hissoul starving for love and mocked at by shadows which is revealedthrough all the scenes of _Roméo_. 

I will not prolong a discussion where so many things must be leftunsaid. But I would suggest that, once and for all, we get rid of theseabsurd endeavours to fence in art. Do not let us say: Music can. .. . Music cannot express such-and-such a thing. Let us say rather, If geniuspleases, everything is possible; and if music so wishes, she may bepainting and poetry to-morrow. Berlioz has proved it well in his_Roméo_. 

This _Roméo_ is an extraordinary work: "a wonderful isle, where a templeof pure art is set up. " For my part, not only do I consider it equal tothe most powerful of Wagner's creations, but I believe it to be richerin its teaching and in its resources for art--resources and teachingwhich contemporary French art has not yet fully turned to account. Oneknows that for several years the young French school has been makingefforts to deliver our music from German models, to create a language ofrecitative that shall belong to France and that the _leitmotif_ will notoverwhelm; a more exact and less heavy language, which in expressing thefreedom of modern thought will not have to seek the help of theclassical or Wagnerian forms. Not long ago, the _Schola Cantorum_published a manifesto that proclaimed "the liberty of musicaldeclamation . .. Free speech in free music . .. The triumph of naturalmusic with the free movement of speech and the plastic rhythm of theancient dance"--thus declaring war on the metrical art of the last threecenturies. [84]

[Footnote 84: _Tribune de Saint Gervais_, November, 1903. ]

Well, here is that music; you will nowhere find a more perfect model. Itis true that many who profess the principles of this music repudiatethe model, and do not hide their disdain for Berlioz. That makes medoubt a little, I admit, the results of their efforts. If they do notfeel the wonderful freedom of Berlioz's music, and do not see that itwas the delicate veil of a very living spirit, then I think there willbe more of archaism than real life in their pretensions to "free music. "Study, not only the most celebrated pages of his work, such as the_Scène d'amour_ (the one of all his compositions that Berlioz himselfliked best), [85] _La Tristesse de Roméo_, or _La Fête des Capulet_(where a spirit like Wagner's own unlooses and subdues again tempests ofpassion and joy), but take less well-known pages, such as the_Scherzetto chanté de la reine Mab_, or the _Réveil de Juliette_, andthe music describing the death of the two lovers. [86] In the one whatlight grace there is, in the other what vibrating passion, and in bothof them what freedom and apt expression of ideas. The language ismagnificent, of wonderful clearness and simplicity; not a word too much, and not a word that does not reveal an unerring pen. In nearly all thebig works of Berlioz before 1845 (that is up to the _Damnation_) youwill find this nervous precision and sweeping liberty. 

[Footnote 85: _Mémoires_, II, 365. ]

[Footnote 86: "This composition contains a dose of sublimity much toostrong for the ordinary public; and Berlioz, with the splendid insolenceof genius, advises the conductor, in a note, to turn the page and passit over" (Georges de Massougnes, _Berlioz_). This fine study by Georgesde Massougnes appeared in 1870, and is very much in advance of itstime. ]

Then there is the freedom of his rhythms. Schumann, who was nearest toBerlioz of all musicians of that time, and, therefore, best able tounderstand him, had been struck by this since the composition of the_Symphonic fantastique_, [87] He wrote:--

 "The present age has certainly not produced a work in which similar times and rhythms combined with dissimilar times and rhythms have been more freely used. The second part of a phrase rarely corresponds with the first, the reply to the question. This anomaly is characteristic of Berlioz, and is natural to his southern temperament. "

Far from objecting to this, Schumann sees in it something necessary tomusical evolution. 

 "Apparently music is showing a tendency to go back to its beginnings, to the time when the laws of rhythm did not yet trouble her; it seems that she wishes to free herself, to regain an utterance that is unconstrained, and raise herself to the dignity of a sort of poetic language. "

And Schumann quotes these words of Ernest Wagner: "He who shakes off thetyranny of time and delivers us from it will, as far as one can see, give back freedom to music. "[88]

[Footnote 87: "Oh, how I love, honour, and reverence Schumann for havingwritten this article alone" (Hugo Wolf, 1884). ]

[Footnote 88: _Neue Zeitschrift für Musik_. See _Hector Berlioz undRobert Schumann_. Berlioz was constantly righting for this freedom ofrhythm--for "those harmonies of rhythm, " as he said. He wished to form aRhythm class at the Conservatoire (_Mémoires_, II, 241), but such athing was not understood in France. Without being as backward as Italyon this point, France is still resisting the emancipation of rhythm(_Mémoires_, II, 196). But during the last ten years great progress inmusic has been made in France. ]

Remark also Berlioz's freedom of melody. His musical phrases pulse andflow like life itself. "Some phrases taken separately, " says Schumann, "have such an intensity that they will not bear harmonising--_as in manyancient folk-songs_--and often even an accompaniment spoils theirfulness. "[89] These melodies so correspond with the emotions, that theyreproduce the least thrills of body and mind by their vigorousworkings-up and delicate reliefs, by splendid barbarities of modulationand strong and glowing colour, by gentle gradations of light and shadeor imperceptible ripples of thought, which flow over the body like asteady tide. It is an art of peculiar sensitiveness, more delicatelyexpressive than that of Wagner; not satisfying itself with the moderntonality, but going back to old modes--a rebel, as M. Saint-Saënsremarks, to the polyphony which had governed music since Bach's day, andwhich is perhaps, after all, "a heresy destined to disappear. "[90]

[Footnote 89: _Ibid_. "A rare peculiarity, " adds Schumann, "whichdistinguishes nearly all his melodies. " Schumann understands why Berliozoften gives as an accompaniment to his melodies a simple bass, or chordsof the augmented and diminished fifth--ignoring the intermediate parts. ]

[Footnote 90: "What will then remain of actual art? Perhaps Berlioz willbe its sole representative. Not having studied the pianoforte, he had aninstinctive aversion to counterpoint. He is in this respect the oppositeof Wagner, who was the embodiment of counterpoint, and drew the utmosthe could from its laws" (Saint-Saëns). ]

How much finer, to my idea, are Berlioz's recitatives, with their longand winding rhythms, [91] than Wagner's declamations, which--apart fromthe climax of a subject, where the air breaks into bold and vigorousphrases, whose influence elsewhere is often weak--limit themselves tothe quasi-notation of spoken inflections, and jar noisily against thefine harmonies of the orchestra. Berlioz's orchestration, too, is of amore delicate temper, and has a freer life than Wagner's, flowing in animpetuous stream, and sweeping away everything in its course; it is alsoless united and solid, but more flexible; its nature is undulating andvaried, and the thousand imperceptible impulses of the spirit and ofaction are reflected there. It is a marvel of spontaneity and caprice. 

[Footnote 91: Jacques Passy notes that with Berlioz the most frequentphrases consist of twelve, sixteen, eighteen, or twenty bars. WithWagner, phrases of eight bars are rare, those of four more common, thoseof two still more so, while those of one bar are most frequent of all(_Berlioz et Wagner_, article published in _Le Correspondant_, 10 June, 1888). ]

In spite of appearances, Wagner is a classicist compared with Berlioz;he carried on and perfected the work of the German classicists; he madeno innovations; he is the pinnacle and the close of one evolution ofart. Berlioz began a new art; and one finds in it all the daring andgracious ardour of youth. The iron laws that bound the art of Wagner arenot to be found in Berlioz's early works, which give one the illusion ofperfect freedom. [92]

[Footnote 92: One must make mention here of the poorness and awkwardnessof Berlioz's harmony--which is incontestable--since some critics andcomposers have been able to see (Am I saying somethingridiculous?--Wagner would say it for me) nothing but "faults oforthography" in his genius. To these terrible grammarians--who, twohundred years ago, criticised Molière on account of his "jargon"--Ishall reply by quoting Schumann. 

 "Berlioz's harmonies, in spite of the diversity of their effect, obtained from very scanty material, are distinguished by a sort of simplicity, and even by a solidity and conciseness, which one only meets with in Beethoven. .. . One may find here and there harmonies that are commonplace and trivial, and others that are incorrect--at least according to the old rules. In some places his harmonies have a fine effect, and in others their result is vague and indeterminate, or it sounds badly, or is too elaborate and far-fetched. Yet with Berlioz all this somehow takes on a certain distinction. If one attempted to correct it, or even slightly to modify it--for a skilled musician it would be child's play--the music would become dull" (Article on the _Symphonie fantastique_). 

But let us leave that "grammatical discussion" as well as what Wagnerwrote on "the childish question as to whether it is permitted or not tointroduce 'neologisms' in matters of harmony and melody" (Wagner toBerlioz, 22 February, 1860). As Schumann has said, "Look out for fifths, and then leave us in peace. "]

As soon as the profound originality of Berlioz's music has been grasped, one understands why it encountered, and still encounters, so much secrethostility. How many accomplished musicians of distinction and learning, who pay honour to artistic tradition, are incapable of understandingBerlioz because they cannot bear the air of liberty breathed by hismusic. They are so used to thinking in German, that Berlioz's speechupsets and shocks them. I can well believe it. It is the first time aFrench musician has dared to think in French; and that is the reason whyI warned you of the danger of accepting too meekly German ideas aboutBerlioz. Men like Weingartner, Richard Strauss, and Mottl--thoroughbredmusicians--are, without doubt, able to appreciate Berlioz's geniusbetter and more quickly than we French musicians. But I rather mistrustthe kind of appreciation they feel for a spirit so opposed to their own. It is for France and French people to learn to read his thoughts; theyare intimately theirs, and one day will give them their salvation. 

 * * * * *

Berlioz's other great originality lay in his talent for music that wassuited to the spirit of the common people, recently raised tosovereignty, and the young democracy. In spite of his aristocraticdisdain, his soul was with the masses. M. Hippeau applies to him Taine'sdefinition of a romantic artist: "the plebeian of a new race, richlygifted, and filled with aspirations, who, having attained for the firsttime the world's heights, noisily displays the ferment of his mind andheart. " Berlioz grew up in the midst of revolutions and stories ofImperial achievement. He wrote his cantata for the _Prix de Rome_ inJuly, 1830, "to the hard, dull noise of stray bullets, which whizzedabove the roofs, and came to flatten themselves against the wall nearhis window. "[93] When he had finished this cantata, he went, "pistol inhand, to play the blackguard in Paris with the _sainte canaille_. " Hesang the _Marseillaise_, and made "all who had a voice and heart andblood in their veins"[94] sing it too. On his journey to Italy hetravelled from Marseilles to Livourne with Mazzinian conspirators, whowere going to take part in the insurrection of Modena and Bologna. Whether he was conscious of it or not, he was the musician ofrevolutions; his sympathies were with the people. 

[Footnote 93: _Mémoires_, I, 155. ]

[Footnote 94: These words are taken from Berlioz's directions on thescore of his arrangement of the _Marseillaise_ for full orchestra anddouble choir. ] Not only did he fill his scenes in the theatre withswarming and riotous crowds, like those of the Roman Carnival in thesecond act of _Benvenuto_ (anticipating by thirty years the crowds of_Die Meistersinger_), but he created a music of the masses and acolossal style. His model here was Beethoven; Beethoven of the Eroica, of the C minor, of the A, and, above all, of the Ninth Symphony. He wasBeethoven's follower in this as well as other things, and the apostlewho carried on his work. [95] And with his understanding of materialeffects and sonorous matter, he built edifices, as he says, that were"Babylonian and Ninevitish, "[96] "music after Michelangelo, "[97] "on animmense scale. "[98]

[Footnote 95: "From Beethoven, " says Berlioz, "dates the advent in artof colossal forms" (_Mémoires_, II, 112). But Berlioz forgot one ofBeethoven's models--Händel. One must also take into account themusicians of the French revolution: Mehul, Gossec, Cherubini, andLesueur, whose works, though they may not equal their intentions, arenot without grandeur, and often disclose the intuition of a new andnoble and popular art. ]

[Footnote 96: Letter to Morel, 1855. Berlioz thus describes the_Tibiomnes_ and the _Judex_ of his _Te Deum_. Compare Heine's judgment:"Berlioz's music makes me think of gigantic kinds of extinct animals, offabulous empires. .. . Babylon, the hanging gardens of Semiramis, thewonders of Nineveh, the daring buildings of Mizraim. "]

[Footnote 97: _Mémoires_, I, 17. ]

[Footnote 98: Letter to an unknown person, written probably about 1855, in the collection of Siegfried Ochs, and published in the _Geschichteder französischen Musik_ of Alfred Bruneau, 1904. That letter contains arather curious analytical catalogue of Berlioz's works, drawn up byhimself. He notes there his predilection for compositions of a "colossalnature, " such as the _Requiem_, the _Symphonie funèbre et triomphale_, and the _Te Deum_, or those of "an immense style, " such as the_Impériale_. ]

It was the _Symphonie funèbre et triomphale_ for two orchestras and achoir, and the _Te Deum_ for orchestra, organ, and three choirs, whichBerlioz loved (whose finale _Judex crederis_ seemed to him the mosteffective thing he had ever written[99]), as well as the _Impériale_, for two orchestras and two choirs, and the famous _Requiem_, with its"four orchestras of brass instruments, placed round the main orchestraand the mass of voices, but separated and answering one another at adistance. " Like the _Requiem_, these compositions are often crude instyle and of rather commonplace sentiment, but their grandeur isoverwhelming. This is not due only to the hugeness of the meansemployed, but also to "the breadth of the style and to the formidableslowness of some of the progressions--whose final aim one cannotguess--which gives these compositions a strangely giganticcharacter. "[100] Berlioz has left in these compositions strikingexamples of the beauty that may reveal itself in a crude mass of music. Like the towering Alps, they move one by their very immensity. A Germancritic says: "In these Cyclopean works the composer lets the elementaland brute forces of sound and pure rhythm have their fling. "[101] It isscarcely music, it is the force of Nature herself. Berlioz himself callshis _Requiem_ "a musical cataclysm. "[102]

[Footnote 99: _Mémoires_, II, 364. See also the letter quoted above. ]

[Footnote 100: _Mémoires_, II, 363. See also II, 163, and thedescription of the great festival of 1844, with its 1, 022 performers. ]

[Footnote 101: Hermann Kretzschmar, _Führer durch den Konzertsaal_. ]

[Footnote 102: _Mémoires_, I, 312. ]

These hurricanes are let loose in order to speak to the people, to stirand rouse the dull ocean of humanity. The _Requiem_ is a Last Judgment, not meant, like that of the Sixtine Chapel (which Berlioz did not carefor at all) for great aristocracies, but for a crowd, a surging, excited, and rather savage crowd. The _Marche de Rakoczy_ is less anHungarian march than the music for a revolutionary fight; it sounds thecharge; and Berlioz tells us it might bear Virgil's verses for amotto:--

 " . .. Furor iraque mentes Praecipitant, pulchrumque mori succurrit in armis. "[103]

When Wagner heard the _Symphonic funèbre et triomphale_ he was forced toadmit Berlioz's "skill in writing compositions that were popular in thebest sense of the word. "

 "In listening to that symphony I had a lively impression that any little street boy in a blue blouse and red bonnet would understand it perfectly. I have no hesitation in giving precedence to that work over Berlioz's other works; it is big and noble from the first note to the last; a fine and eager patriotism rises from its first expression of compassion to the final glory of the apotheosis, and keeps it from any unwholesome exaggeration. I want gladly to express my conviction that that symphony will fire men's courage and will live as long as a nation bears the name of France. "[104]

[Footnote 103: Letter to some young Hungarians, 14 February, 1861. Seethe _Mémoires_, II, 212, for the incredible emotion which the _Marche deRakoczy_ roused in the audience at Budapest, and, above all, for theastonishing scene at the end:--

 "I saw a man enter unexpectedly. He was miserably clad, but his face shone with a strange rapture. When he saw me, he threw himself upon me and embraced me with fervour; his eyes filled with tears, and he was hardly able to get out the words, 'Ah, monsieur, monsieur! moi Hongrois . .. Pauvre diable . .. Pas parler Français . .. Un poco Italiano. Pardonnez mon extase. .. . Ah! ai compris votre canon. .. . Oui, oui, la grande-bataille. .. . Allemands chiens!' And then striking his breast violently: 'Dans le coeur, moi . .. Je vous porte. .. . _Ah! Français . .. Révolutionnaire . .. Savoir faire la musique des révolutions_!'"]

[Footnote 104: Written 5 May, 1841. ]

How do such works come to be neglected by our Republic? How is it theyhave not a place in our public life? Why are they not part of our greatceremonies? That is what one would wonderingly ask oneself if one hadnot seen, for the last century, the indifference of the State to Art. What might not Berlioz have done if the means had been given him, or ifhis works had found a place in the fêtes of the Revolution? Unhappily, one must add that here again his character was the enemy of his genius. As this apostle of musical freedom, in the second part of his life, became afraid of himself and recoiled before the results of his ownprinciples, and returned to classicism, so this revolutionary fell tosullenly disparaging the people and revolutions; and he talks about "therepublican cholera, " "the dirty and stupid republic, " "the republic ofstreet-porters and rag-gatherers, " "the filthy rabble of humanity ahundred times more stupid and animal in its twitchings and revolutionarygrimacings than the baboons and orang-outangs of Borneo. "[105]

[Footnote 105: Berlioz never ceased to inveigh against the Revolution of1848--which should have had his sympathies. Instead of finding material, like Wagner, in the excitement of that time for impassionedcompositions, he worked at _L'Enfance du Christ_. He affected absoluteindifference--he who was so little made for indifference. He approvedthe State's action, and despised its visionary hopes. ] Whatingratitude! He owed to these revolutions, to these democratic storms, to these human tempests, the best of all his genius--and he disowned itall. This musician of a new era took refuge in the past. 

 * * * * *

Well, what did it matter? Whether he wished it or not, he opened outsome magnificent roads for Art. He has shown the music of France the wayin which her genius should tread; he has shown her possibilities she hadnever before dreamed of. He has given us a musical utterance at oncetruthful and expressive, free from foreign traditions, coming from thedepths of our being, and reflecting our spirit; an utterance whichresponded to his imagination, to his instinct for what was picturesque, to his fleeting impressions, and his delicate shades of feeling. He haslaid the strong foundation of a national and popular music for thegreatest republic in Europe. 

These are shining qualities. If Berlioz had had Wagner's reasoning powerand had made the utmost use of his intuitions, if he had had Wagner'swill and had shaped the inspirations of his genius and welded them intoa solid whole, I venture to say that he would have made a revolution inmusic greater than Wagner's own; for Wagner, though stronger and moremaster of himself, was less original and, at bottom, but the close of aglorious past. 

Will that revolution still be accomplished? Perhaps; but it has sufferedhalf a century's delay. Berlioz bitterly calculated that people wouldbegin to understand him about the year 1940. [106]

After all, why be astonished that his mighty mission was too much forhim? He was so alone. [107] As people forsook him, his loneliness stoodout in greater relief. He was alone in the age of Wagner, Liszt, Schumann, and Franck; alone, yet containing a whole world in himself, ofwhich his enemies, his friends, his admirers, and he himself, were notquite conscious; alone, and tortured by his loneliness. Alone--the wordis repeated by the music of his youth and his old age, by the _Symphoniefantastique_ and _Les Troyens_. It is the word I read in the portraitbefore me as I write these lines--the beautiful portrait of the_Mémoires_, where his face looks out in sad and stern reproach on theage that so misunderstood him. 

[Footnote 106: "My musical career would finish very pleasingly if only Icould live for a hundred and forty years" _(Mémoires_, II, 390). ]

[Footnote 107: This solitude struck Wagner. "Berlioz's loneliness is notonly one of external circumstances; its origin is in his temperament. Though he is a Frenchman, with quick sympathies and interests like thoseof his fellow-citizens, yet he is none the less alone. He sees no onebefore him who will hold out a helping hand, there is no one by his sideon whom he may lean" (Article written 5 May, 1841). As one reads thesewords, one feels it was Wagner's lack of sympathy and not hisintelligence that prevented him from understanding Berlioz. In his heartI do not doubt that he knew well who was his great rival. But he neversaid anything about it--unless perhaps one counts an odd document, certainly not intended for publication, where he (even he) compares himto Beethoven and to Bonaparte (Manuscript in the collection of AlfredBovet, published by Mottl in German magazines, and by M. Georges deMassougnes in the _Revue d'art dramatique_, 1 January, 1902). ]

WAGNER

"SIEGFRIED"

There is nothing so thrilling as first impressions. I remember when, asa child, I heard fragments of Wagner's music for the first time at oneof old Pasdeloup's concerts in the Cirque d'Hiver. I was taken there onedull and foggy Sunday afternoon; and as we left the yellow fog outsideand entered the hall we were met by an overpowering warmth, a dazzlingblaze of light, and the murmuring voice of the crowd. My eyes wereblinded, I breathed with difficulty, and my limbs soon became cramped;for we sat on wooden benches, crushed in a narrow space between solidwalls of human beings. But with the first note of the music all wasforgotten, and one fell into a state of painful yet delicious torpor. Perhaps one's very discomfort made the pleasure keener. Those who knowthe intoxication of climbing a mountain know also how closely it isassociated with the discomforts of the climb--with fatigue and theblinding light of the sun, with out-of-breathness, and all the othersensations that rouse and stimulate life and make the body tingle, sothat the remembrance of it all is carved indelibly on the mind. Thecomfort of a playhouse adds nothing to the illusion of a play; and itmay even be due to the entire inconvenience of the old concert-roomsthat I owe my vivid recollection of my first meeting with Wagner's work. 

How mysterious it was, and what a strange agitation it filled me with!There were new effects of orchestration, new timbres, new rhythms, andnew subjects; it held the wild poetry of the far-away Middle Ages andold legends, it throbbed with the fever of our hidden sorrows anddesires. I did not understand it very well. How should I? The music wastaken from works quite unknown to me. It was almost impossible to seizethe connection of the ideas on account of the poor acoustics of theroom, the bad arrangement of the orchestra, and the unskilledplayers--all of which served to break up the musical design and spoilthe harmony of its colouring. Passages that should have been madeprominent were slurred over, and others were distorted by faulty time orwant of precision. Even to-day, when our orchestras are seasoned byyears of study, I should often be unable to follow Wagner's thoughtthroughout a whole scene if I did not happen to know the score, for theoutline of a melody is often smothered by the accompaniment, and so itssentiment is lost. If we still find obscurity of meaning in Wagner'sworks you can imagine how much worse it was then. But what did itmatter? I used to feel myself stirred with passions that were not human:some magnetic influence seemed to thrill me with both pleasure and pain, and I felt invigorated and happy, for it brought me strength. It seemedas if my child's heart were torn from me and the heart of a hero put inits place. 

Nor was I alone in the experience. On the faces of the people roundabout me I saw the reflection of my own emotions. What was the meaningof it? The audience consisted chiefly of poor and commonplace people, whose faces were lined with the wear and tear of a life without interestor ideals; their minds were dull and heavy, and yet here they respondedto the divine spirit of the music. There is no more impressive sightthan that of thousands of people held spellbound by a melody; it is byturns sublime, grotesque, and touching. 

What a place in my life those Sunday concerts held! All the week I livedfor those two hours; and when they were over I thought about them untilthe following Sunday. The fascination of Wagner's music for youth hasoften troubled people; they think it poisons the thoughts and dulls theactivities. But the generation that was then intoxicated by Wagner doesnot seem to have shown signs of demoralisation since. Why do not peopleunderstand that if we had need of that music it was not because it wasdeath to us, but life. Cramped by the artificiality of a town, far fromaction, or nature, or any strong or real life, we expanded under theinfluence of this noble music--music which flowed from a heart filledwith understanding of the world and the breath of Nature. In _DieMeistersinger_, in _Tristan_, and in _Siegfried_, we went to find thejoy, the love, and the vigour that we so lacked. 

At the time when I was feeling Wagner's seductiveness so strongly therewere always some carping people among my elders ready to quench myadmiration and say with a superior smile: "That is nothing. One can'tjudge Wagner at a concert. You must hear him in the opera-house atBayreuth. " Since then I have been several times to Bayreuth; I have seenWagner's works performed in Berlin, in Dresden, in Munich, and in otherGerman towns, but I have never again felt the old intoxication. Peopleare wrong to pretend that closer acquaintance with a fine work adds toone's enjoyment of it. It may throw light upon it, but it nips one'simagination and dispels the mystery. The puzzling fragments one hears atconcerts will take on splendid proportions on account of all the mindadds to them. That epic poem of the _Niebelungen_ was once like a forestin our dreams, where strange and awful beings flashed before our visionand then vanished. Later on, when we had explored all its paths, wediscovered that order and reason reigned in the midst of this apparentjungle; and when we came to know the least wrinkle on the faces of itsinhabitants, the confusion and emotion of other days no longer filledus. 

But this may be the result of growing older; and if I do not recognisethe Wagner of other days, it is perhaps because I do not recognise myformer self. A work of art, and above all a work of musical art, changeswith ourselves. _Siegfried_, for example, is for me no longer full ofmystery. The qualities in it that strike me to-day are its cheerfulvigour, its clearness of form, its virile force and freedom, and theextraordinary healthiness of the hero, and, indeed, of the whole work. 

I sometimes think of poor Nietzsche and his passion for destroying thethings he loved, and how he sought in others the decadence that wasreally in himself. He tried to embody this decadence in Wagner, and, ledaway by his flights of fancy and his mania for paradox (which would belaughable if one did not remember that his whims were not hatched inhours of happiness), he denied Wagner his most obvious qualities--hisvigour, his determination, his unity, his logic, and his power ofprogress. He amused himself by comparing Wagner's style with that ofGoncourt, by making him--with amusing irony--a great miniaturistpainter, a poet of half-tones, a musician of affectations andmelancholy, so delicate and effeminate in style that "after him allother musicians seemed too robust. "[108] He has painted Wagner and histime delightfully. We all enjoy these little pictures of the Tetralogy, delicately drawn and worked up by the aid of amagnifying-glass--pictures of Wagner, languishing and beautiful, in amournful salon, and pictures of the athletic meetings of the othermusicians, who were "too robust"! The amusing part is that this piece ofwit has been taken seriously by certain arbiters of elegance, who areonly too happy to be able to run counter to any current opinion, whatever it may be. 

[Footnote 108: F. Nietzsche, _Der Fall Wagner_. ]

I do not say that there may not be a decadent side in Wagner, revealingsuper-sensitiveness or even hysteria and other modern nervousaffections. And if this side was lacking he would not be representativeof his time, and that is what every great artist ought to be. But thereis certainly something more in him than decadence; and if women andyoung men cannot see anything beyond it, it only proves their inabilityto get outside themselves. A long time ago Wagner himself complained toLiszt that neither the public nor artists knew how to listen to orunderstand any side of his music but the effeminate side: "They do notgrasp its strength, " he said. "My supposed successes, " he also tells us, "are founded on misunderstanding. My public reputation isn't worth awalnut-shell. " And it is true he has been applauded, patronised, andmonopolised for a quarter of a century by all the decadents of art andliterature. Scarcely anyone has seen in him a vigorous musician and aclassic writer, or has recognised him as Beethoven's direct successor, the inheritor of his heroic and pastoral genius, of his epicinspirations and battlefield rhythms, of his Napoleonic phrases andatmosphere of stirring trumpet-calls. 

Nowhere is Wagner nearer to Beethoven than in _Siegfried_. In _DieWalküre_ certain characters, certain phrases of Wotan, of Brünnhilde, and, especially, of Siegmund, bear a close relationship to Beethoven'ssymphonies and sonatas. I can never play the recitative _con espressionee semplice_ of the seventeenth sonata for the piano (Op. 31, No. 2)without being reminded of the forests of _Die Walküre_ and the fugitivehero. But in _Siegfried_ I find, not only a likeness to Beethoven indetails, but the same spirit running through the work--both the poem andthe music. I cannot help thinking that Beethoven would perhaps havedisliked _Tristan_, but would have loved _Siegfried_; for the latter isa perfect incarnation of the spirit of old Germany, virginal and gross, sincere and malicious, full of humour and sentiment, of deep feeling, ofdreams of bloody and joyous battles, of the shade of great oak-trees andthe song of birds. 

 * * * * *

In my opinion, _Siegfried_, in spirit and in form, stands alone inWagner's work. It breathes perfect health and happiness, and itoverflows with gladness. Only _Die Meistersinger_ rivals it inmerriment, though even there one does not find such a nice balance ofpoetry and music. 

And _Siegfried_ rouses one's admiration the more when one thinks that itwas the offspring of sickness and suffering. The time at which Wagnerwrote it was one of the saddest in his life. It often happens so in art. One goes astray in trying to interpret an artist's life by his work, forit is exceptional to find one a counterpart of the other. It is morelikely that an artist's work will express the opposite of his life--thethings that he did not experience. The object of art is to fill up whatis missing in the artist's experience: "Art begins where life leavesoff, " said Wagner. A man of action is rarely pleased with stimulatingworks of art. Borgia and Sforza patronised Leonardo. The strong, full-blooded men of the seventeenth century; the apoplectic court atVersailles (where Fagon's lancet played so necessary a part); thegenerals and ministers who harassed the Protestants and burned thePalatinate--all these loved pastorales. Napoleon wept at a reading of_Paul et Virginie_, and delighted in the pallid music of Paesiello. Aman wearied by an over-active life seeks repose in art; a man who livesa narrow, commonplace life seeks energy in art. A great artist writes agay work when he is sad, and a sad work when he is gay, almost in spiteof himself. Beethoven's symphony _To Joy_ is the offspring of hismisery; and Wagner's _Meistersinger_ was composed immediately after thefailure of _Tannhäuser_ in Paris. People try to find in _Tristan_ thetrace of some love-story of Wagner's, but Wagner himself says: "As inall my life I have never truly tasted the happiness of love, I willraise a monument to a beautiful dream of it: I have the idea of _Tristanund Isolde_ in my head. " And so it was with his creation of the happyand heedless _Siegfried_. 

 * * * * *

The first ideas of _Siegfried_ were contemporary with the Revolution of1848, which Wagner took part in with the same enthusiasm he put intoeverything else. His recognised biographer, Herr Houston StewartChamberlain--who, with M. Henri Lichtenberger, has succeeded best inunravelling Wagner's complex soul, though he is not without certainprejudices--has been at great pains to prove that Wagner was always apatriot and a German monarchist. Well, he may have been so later on, butit was not, I think, the last phase of his evolution. His actions speakfor themselves. On 14 June, 1848, in a famous speech to the NationalDemocratic Association, Wagner violently attacked the organisation ofsociety itself, and demanded both the abolition of money and theextinction of what was left of the aristocracy. In _Das Kunstwerk derZukunft_ (1849) he showed that beyond the "local nationalism" were signsof a "supernational universalism. " And all this was not merely talk, forhe risked his life for his ideas. Herr Chamberlain himself quotes theaccount of a witness who saw him, in May, 1849, distributingrevolutionary pamphlets to the troops who were besieging Dresden. It wasa miracle that he was not arrested and shot. We know that after Dresdenwas taken a warrant was out against him, and he fled to Switzerland, with a passport on which was a borrowed name. If it be true that Wagnerlater declared that he had been "involved in error and led away by hisfeelings" it matters little to the history of that time. Errors andenthusiasms are an integral part of life, and one must not ignore themin a man's biography under the pretext that he regretted them twenty orthirty years later, for they have, nevertheless, helped to guide hisactions and impressed his imagination. It was out of the Revolutionitself that _Siegfried_ directly sprang. 

In 1848, Wagner was not yet thinking of a Tetralogy, but of an heroicopera in three acts called _Siegfried's Tod_, in which the fatal powerof gold was to be symbolised in the treasure of the Niebelungen; andSiegfried was to represent "a socialist redeemer come down to earth toabolish the reign of Capital. " As the rough draft developed, Wagner wentup the stream of his hero's life. He dreamed of his childhood, of hisconquest of the treasure, of the awakening of Brünnhilde; and in 1851 hewrote the poem of _Der Junge Siegfried_. Siegfried and Brünnhilderepresent the humanity of the future, the new era that should berealised when the earth was set free from the yoke of gold. Then Wagnerwent farther back still, to the sources of the legend itself, and Wotanappeared, the symbol of our time, a man such as you or I--in contrast toSiegfried, man as he ought to be, and one day will be. On this subjectWagner says, in a letter to Roeckel: "Look well at Wotan; he is theunmistakable likeness of ourselves, and the sum of the present-dayspirit, while Siegfried is the man we wait and wish for--the future manwhom we cannot create, but who will create himself by ourannihilation--the most perfect man I can imagine. " Finally Wagnerconceived the Twilight of the Gods, the fall of the Valhalla--ourpresent system of society--and the birth of a regenerated humanity. Wagner wrote to Uhlig in 1851 that the complete work was to be playedafter the great Revolution. 

The opera public would probably be very astonished to learn that in_Siegfried_ they applaud a revolutionary work, expressly directed byWagner against this detested Capital, whose downfall would have been sodear to him. And he never doubted that he was expressing grief in allthese pages of shining joy. 

Wagner went to Zurich after a stay in Paris, where he felt "so muchdistrust for the artistic world and horror for the restraint that he wasforced to put upon himself" that he was seized with a nervous maladywhich nearly killed him. He returned to work at _Der Junge Siegfried_, and he says it brought him great joy. 

 "But I am unhappy in not being able to apply myself to anything but music. I know I am feeding on an illusion, and that reality is the only thing worth having. My health is not good, and my nerves are in a state of increasing weakness. My life, lived entirely in the imagination and without sufficient action, tires me so, that I can only work with frequent breaks and long intervals of rest; otherwise I pay the penalty with long and painful suffering. .. . I am very lonely. I often wish for death. 

 "While I work I forget my troubles; but the moment I rest they come flocking about me, and I am very miserable. What a splendid life is an artist's! Look at it! How willingly would I part with it for a week of real life. 

 "I can't understand how a really happy man could think of serving art. If we enjoyed life, we should have no need of art. When the present has nothing more to offer us we cry out our needs by means of art. To have my youth again and my health, to enjoy nature, to have a wife who would love me devotedly, and fine children--for this I would give up _all my art_. Now I have said it--give me what is left. "

Thus the poem of the Tetralogy was written with doubts, as he said, asto whether he should abandon art and all belonging to it and become ahealthy, normal man--a son of nature. He began to compose the music ofthe poem while in a state of suffering, which every day became moreacute. 

 "My nights are often sleepless; I get out of bed, wretched and exhausted, with the thought of a long day before me, which will not bring me a single joy. The society of others tortures me, and I avoid it only to torture myself. Everything I do fills me with disgust. It can't go on for ever. I can't stand such a life any longer. I will kill myself rather than live like this. .. . I don't believe in anything, and I have only one desire--to sleep so soundly that human misery will exist no more for me. I ought to be able to get such a sleep somehow; it should not be really difficult. "

For distraction he went to Italy; Turin, Genoa, Spezia, and Nice. Butthere, in a strange world, his loneliness seemed so frightful that hebecame very depressed, and made all haste back to Zurich. It was therehe wrote the happy music of _Das Rheingold_. He began the score of _DieWalküre_ at a time when his normal condition was one of suffering. Thenhe discovered Schopenhauer, whose philosophy only helped to confirm andcrystallise his instinctive pessimism. In the spring of 1855 he went toLondon to give concerts; but he was ill there, and this fresh contactwith the world only served to annoy him further. He had some difficultyin again taking up _Die Walküre_; but he finished it at last in spite offrequent attacks of facial erysipelas, for which he afterwards had toundergo a hydropathic cure at Geneva. He began the score of _Siegfried_towards the end of 1856, while the thought of Tristan was stirringwithin him. In _Tristan_ he wished to depict love as "a dreadfulanguish"; and this idea obsessed him so completely that he could notfinish _Siegfried_. He seemed to be consumed by a burning fever; and, abandoning _Siegfried_ in the middle of the second act, he threw himselfmadly into _Tristan_. "I want to gratify my desire for love, " he says, "until it is completely satiated; and in the folds of the black flagthat floats over its consummation I wish to wrap myself and die. "[109]_Siegfried_ was not finished until 5 February, 1871, at the end of theFranco-Prussian war--that is fourteen years later, after severalinterruptions. 

Such is, in a few words, the history of this heroic idyll. It is perhapsas well to remind the public now and then that the hours of distractionthey enjoy by means of art may represent years of suffering for theartist. 

 * * * * *

[Footnote 109: The quotations from Wagner are taken from his letters toRoeckel, Uhlig, and Liszt, between 1851 and 1856. ]

Do you know the amusing account Tolstoy gave of a performance of_Siegfried_? I will quote it from his book, _What is Art_?--

 "When I arrived, an actor in tight-fitting breeches was seated before an object that was meant to represent an anvil. He wore a wig and false beard; his white and manicured hands had nothing of the workman about them; and his easy air, prominent belly, and flabby muscles readily betrayed the actor. With an absurd hammer he struck--as no one else would ever strike--a fantastic-looking sword-blade. One guessed he was a dwarf, because when he walked he bent his legs at the knees. He cried out a great deal, and opened his mouth in a queer fashion. The orchestra also emitted peculiar noises like several beginnings that had nothing to do with one another. Then another actor appeared with a horn in his belt, leading a man dressed up as a bear, who walked on all-fours. He let loose the bear on the dwarf, who ran away, but forgot to bend his knees this time. The actor with the human face represented the hero, Siegfried. He cried out for a long time, and the dwarf replied in the same way. Then a traveller arrived--the god Wotan. He had a wig, too; and, settling himself down with his spear, in a silly attitude, he told Mimi all about things he already knew, but of which the audience was ignorant. Then Siegfried seized some bits that were supposed to represent pieces of a sword, and sang:

 'Heaho, heaho, hoho! Hoho, hoho, hoho, hoho! Hoheo, haho, haheo, hoho!' And that was the end of the first act. It was all so artificial and stupid that I had great difficulty in sitting it out. But my friends begged me to stay, and assured me that the second act would be better. 

 "The next scene represented a forest. Wotan was waking up the dragon. At first the dragon said, 'I want to go to sleep'; but eventually he came out of his grotto. The dragon was represented by two men clothed in a green skin with some scales stuck about it. At one end of the skin they wagged a tail, and at the other end they opened a crocodile's mouth, out of which came fire. The dragon, which ought to have been a frightful beast--and perhaps he would have frightened children about five years old--said a few words in a bass voice. It was so childish and feeble that one was astonished to see grown-up people present; even thousands of so-called cultured people looked on and listened attentively, and went into raptures. Then Siegfried arrived with his horn. He lay down during a pause, which is reputed to be very beautiful; and sometimes he talked to himself, and sometimes he was quite silent. He wanted to imitate the song of the birds, and cut a rush with his horn, and made a flute out of it. But he played the flute badly, and so he began to blow his horn. The scene is intolerable, and there is not the least trace of music in it. I was annoyed to see three thousand people round about me, listening submissively to this absurdity and dutifully admiring it. 

 "With some courage I managed to wait for the next scene--Siegfried's fight with the dragon. There were roarings and flames of fire and brandishings of the sword. But I could not stand it any longer; and I fled out of the theatre with a feeling of disgust that I have not yet forgotten. "

I admit I cannot read this delightful criticism without laughing; and itdoes not affect me painfully like Nietzsche's pernicious and morbidirony. It used to be a grief to me that two men whom I loved with anequal affection, and whom I reverenced as the finest spirits in Europe, remained strangers and hostile to each other. I could not bear thethought that a genius, hopelessly misunderstood by the crowd, should bebent on making his solitude more bitter and narrow by refusing, with asort of jealous waywardness, to be reconciled to his equals, or to offerthem the hand of friendship. But now I think that perhaps it was betterso. The first virtue of genius is sincerity. If Nietzsche had to go outof his way _not_ to understand Wagner, it is natural, on the other hand, that Wagner should be a closed book to Tolstoy; it would be almostsurprising if it were otherwise. Each one has his own part to play, andhas no need to change it. Wagner's wonderful dreams and magic intuitionof the inner life are not less valuable to us than Tolstoy's pitilesstruth, in which he exposes modern society and tears away the veil ofhypocrisy with which she covers herself. So I admire _Siegfried_, andat the same time enjoy Tolstoy's satire; for I like the latter's sturdyhumour, which is one of the most striking features of his realism, andwhich, as he himself noticed, makes him closely resemble Rousseau. Bothmen show us an ultra-refined civilisation, and both are uncompromisingapostles of a return to nature. 

Tolstoy's rough banter recalls Rousseau's sarcasm about an opera ofRameau's. In the _Nouvelle Héloïse_, he rails in a similar fashionagainst the sadly fantastic performances at the theatre. It was, eventhen, a question of monsters, "of dragons animated by a blockhead of aSavoyard, who had not enough spirit for the beast. "

 "They assured me that they had a tremendous lot of machinery to make all this movement, and they offered several times to show it to me; but I felt no curiosity about little effects achieved by great efforts. .. . The sky is represented by some blue rags suspended from sticks and cords, like a laundry display. .. . The chariots of the gods and goddesses are made of four joists in a frame, suspended by a thick rope, as a swing might be. Then a plank is stuck across the joists, and on this is seated a god. In front of him hangs a piece of daubed cloth, which serves as a cloud upon which his splendid chariot may rest. .. . The theatre is furnished with little square trap-doors which, opening as occasion requires, show that the demons can be let loose from the cellars. When the demons have to fly in the air, dummies of brown cloth are substituted, or sometimes real chimney-sweeps, who swing in the air, suspended by cords, until they are gloriously lost in the rag sky. .. . 

 "But you can have no idea of the dreadful cries and roarings with which the theatre resounds. .. . What is so extraordinary is that these howlings are almost the only things that the audience applaud. By the way they clap their hands one would take them to be a lot of deaf creatures, who were so delighted to catch a few piercing sounds now and then that they wanted the actors to do them all over again. I am quite sure that people applaud the bawling of an actress at the opera as they would a mountebank's feats of skill at a fair--one suffers while they are going on, but one is so delighted to see them finish without an accident that one willingly demonstrates one's pleasure. .. . With these beautiful sounds, as true as they are sweet, those of the orchestra blend very worthily. Imagine an unending clatter of instruments without any melody; a lingering and endless groaning among the bass parts; and the whole the most mournful and boring thing that I ever heard in my life. I could not put up with it for half an hour without getting a violent headache. 

 "All this forms a sort of psalmody, possessing neither tune nor time. But if by any chance a lively air is played, there is a general stamping; the audience is set in motion, and follows, with a great deal of trouble and noise, some performer in the orchestra. Delighted to feel for a few moments the rhythm that is so lacking, they torment the ear, the voice, the arms, the legs, and all the body, to chase after a tune that is ever ready to escape them. .. . "

I have quoted this rather long passage to show how the impression madeby one of Rameau's operas on his contemporaries resembled that made byWagner on his enemies. It was not without reason that Rameau was said tobe Wagner's forerunner, as Rousseau was Tolstoy's forerunner. 

In reality, it was not against _Siegfried_ itself that Tolstoy'scriticism was directed; and Tolstoy was closer than he thought to thespirit of this drama. Is not Siegfried the heroic incarnation of a freeand healthy man, sprung directly from Nature? In a sketch of_Siegfried_, written in 1848, Wagner says:

 "To follow the impulses of my heart is my supreme law; what I can accomplish by obeying my instincts is what I ought to do. Is that voice of instinct cursed or blessed? I do not know; but I yield to it, and never force myself to run counter to my inclination. "

Wagner fought against civilisation by quite other methods than thoseemployed by Tolstoy; and if the efforts of the two were equally great, the practical result is--one must really say it--as poor on one side ason the other. 

What Tolstoy's raillery is really aimed at is not Wagner's work, but theway in which his work was represented. The splendours of the setting donot hide the childishness of the ideas behind them: the dragon Fafna, Fricka's rams, the bear, the serpent, and all the Valhalla menageriehave always been ridiculous. I will only add that the dragon's failureto be terrifying was not Wagner's fault, for he never attempted todepict a terrifying dragon. He gave it quite clearly, and of his ownchoice, a comic character. Both the text and the music make Fafner asort of ogre, a simple creature, but, above all, a grotesque one. 

Besides, I cannot help feeling that scenic reality takes away ratherthan adds to the effect of these great philosophical fairylands. Malwidavon Meysenbug told me that at the Bayreuth festival of 1876, while shewas following one of the _Ring_ scenes very attentively with heropera-glasses, two hands were laid over her eyes, and she heard Wagner'svoice say impatiently: "Don't look so much at what is going on. Listen!"It was good counsel. There are dilettanti who pretend that at a concertthe best way to enjoy Beethoven's last works--where the sonority isdefective--is to stop the ears and read the score. One might say withless of a paradox that the best way to follow a performance of Wagner'soperas is to listen with the eyes shut. So perfect is the music, sopowerful its hold on the imagination, that it leaves nothing to bedesired; what it suggests to the mind is infinitely finer than what theeyes may see. I have never shared the opinion that Wagner's works maybe best appreciated in the theatre. His works are epic symphonies. As aframe for them I should like temples; as scenery, the illimitable landof thought; as actors, our dreams. 

 * * * * *

The first act of _Siegfried_ is one of the most dramatic in theTetralogy. Nothing satisfied me more completely at Bayreuth, both asregards the actors and the dramatic effects. Fantastic creatures likeAlberich and Mimi, who seem to be out of their element in France, arerooted deep down in German imaginations. The Bayreuth actors surpassedthemselves in making them startlingly lifelike, with a trembling andgrimacing realism. Burgstaller, who was then making his debut in_Siegfried_, acted with an impetuous awkwardness which accorded wellwith the part. I remember with what zest--which seemed in no wayaffected--he played the hero smith, labouring like a true workman, blowing the fire and making the blade glow, dipping it in the steamingwater, and working it on the anvil; and then, in a burst of Homericgaiety, singing that fine hymn at the end of the first act, which soundslike an air by Bach or Händel. 

But in spite of all this, I felt how much better it was to dream, or tohear this poem of a youthful soul at a concert. It is then that themagic murmurs of the forest in the second act speak more directly to theheart. However beautiful the scenery of glades and woods, howevercleverly the light is made to change and dance among the trees--and itis manipulated now like a set of organ stops--it still seems almostwrong to listen with open eyes to music that, unaided, can show us aglorious summer's day, and make us see the swaying of the tree-tops, andhear the brush of the wind against the leaves. Through the music alonethe hum and murmur of a thousand little voices is about us, the glorioussong of the birds floats into the depths of a blue sky; or comes asilence, vibrating with invisible life, when Nature, with her mysterioussmile, opens her arms and hushes all things in a divine sleep. 

 * * * * *

Wagner left _Siegfried_ asleep in the forest in order to embark on thefunereal vessel of _Tristan und Isolde_. But he left Siegfried with someanguish of heart. When writing to Liszt in 1857, he says:

 "I have taken young Siegfried into the depths of a lonely forest; there I have left him under a lime-tree, and said good-bye to him with tears in my eyes. It has torn my heart to bury him alive, and I had a hard and painful fight with myself before I could do it. .. . Shall I ever go back to him? No, it is all finished. Don't let us speak of it again. "

Wagner had reason to be sad. He knew well that he would never find hisyoung Siegfried again. He roused him up ten years later. But all waschanged. That splendid third act has not the freshness of the first two. Wotan has become an important figure, and brought reason and pessimismwith him into the drama. Wagner's later conceptions were perhapsloftier, and his genius was more master of itself (think of the classicdignity in the awakening of Brünnhilde); but the ardour and happyexpression of youth is gone. I know that this is not the opinion of mostof Wagner's admirers; but, with the exception of a few pages of sublimebeauty, I have never altogether liked the love scenes at the end of_Siegfried_ and at the beginning of _Götterdämmerung_. I find theirstyle rather pompous and declamatory; and their almost excessiverefinement makes them border upon dulness. The form of the duet, too, seems cut and dried, and there are signs of weariness in it. Theheaviness of the last pages of _Siegfried_ recalls _Die Meistersinger_, which is also of that period. It is no longer the same joy nor the samequality of joy that is found in the earlier acts. 

Yet it does not really matter, for joy is there, nevertheless; and sosplendid was the first inspiration of the work that the years have notdimmed its brilliancy. One would like to end with _Siegfried_, andescape the gloomy _Götterdämmerung_. For those who have sensitivefeelings the fourth day of the Tetralogy has a depressing effect. Iremember the tears I have seen shed at the end of the _Ring_, and thewords of a friend, as we left the theatre at Bayreuth and descended thehill at night: "I feel as though I were coming away from the burial ofsomeone I dearly loved. " It was truly a time of mourning. Perhaps therewas something incongruous in building such a structure when it haduniversal death for its conclusion--or at least in making the whole anobject of show and instruction. _Tristan_ achieves the same end withmuch more power, as the action is swifter. Besides that, the end of_Tristan_ is not without comfort, for life there is terrible. But it isnot the same in _Götterdämmerung_; for in spite of the absurdity of thespell which is set upon the love of Siegfried and Brünnhilde, life withthem is happy and desirable, since they are beings capable of love, anddeath appears to be a splendid but awful catastrophe. And one cannot saythe _Ring_ breathes a spirit of renunciation and sacrifice like_Parsifal_; renunciation and sacrifice are only talked about in the_Ring_; and, in spite of the last transports which impel Brünnhilde tothe funeral pyre, they are neither an inspiration nor a delight. One hasthe impression of a great gulf yawning at one's feet, and the anguish ofseeing those one loves fall into it. 

I have often regretted that Wagner's first conception of _Siegfried_changed in the course of years; and in spite of the magnificent_dénouement_ of _Götterdämmerung_ (which is really more effective in aconcert room, for the real tragedy ends with Siegfried's death), Icannot help thinking with regret how fine a more optimistic poem fromthis revolutionary of '48 might have been. People tell me that it wouldthen have been less true to life. But why should it be truthful todepict life only as a bad thing? Life is neither good nor bad it is justwhat we make it, and the result of the way in which we look at it. Joyis as real as sorrow, and a very fertile source of action. Whatinspiration there is in the laugh of a great man! Let us welcome, therefore, the sparkling if transient gaiety of _Siegfried_. 

Wagner wrote to Malwida von Meysenbug: "I have, by chance, just beenreading Plutarch's life of Timoleon. That life ended very happily--arare and unheard-of thing, especially in history. It does one good tothink that such a thing is possible. It moved me profoundly. "

I feel the same when I hear _Siegfried_. We are rarely allowed tocontemplate happiness in great tragic art; but when we may, how splendidit is, and how good for one!

"TRISTAN"

Tristan towers like a mountain above all other love poems, as Wagnerabove all other artists of his century. It is the outcome of a sublimeconception, though the work as a whole is far from perfect. Of perfectworks there is none where Wagner is concerned. The effort necessary forthe creation of them was too great to be long sustained; for a singlework might means years of toil. And the tense emotions of a whole dramacannot be expressed by a series of sudden inspirations put into form themoment they are conceived. Long and arduous labour is necessary. Thesegiants, fashioned like Michelangelo's, these concentrated tempests ofheroic force and decadent complexity, are not arrested, like the work ofa sculptor or painter, in one moment of their action; they live and goon living in endless detail of sensation. To expect sustainedinspiration is to expect what is not human. Genius may reveal what isdivine; it may call up and catch a glimpse of _die Mütter_, but itcannot always breathe in the exhausted air of this world. So will mustsometimes take the place of inspiration; though the will is uncertainand often stumbles in its task. That is why we encounter things that jarand jolt in the greatest works--they are the marks of human weakness. Well, perhaps there is less weakness in _Tristan_ than in Wagner'sother dramas--_Götterdämmerung_, for instance--for nowhere else is theeffort of his genius more strenuous or its flight more dizzy. Wagnerhimself knew it well. His letters show the despair of a soul wrestlingwith its familiar spirit, which it clutches and holds, only to loseagain. And we seem to hear cries of pain, and feel his anger anddespair. 

 "I can never tell you what a really wretched musician I am. In my inmost heart I know I am a bungler and an absolute failure. You should see me when I say to myself, 'It ought to go now, ' and sit down to the piano and put together some miserable rubbish, which I fling away again like an idiot. I know quite well the kind of musical trash I produce. .. . Believe me, it is no good expecting me to do anything decent. Sometimes I really think it was Reissiger who inspired me to write _Tannhäuser_ and _Lohengrin_. "

This is how Wagner wrote to Liszt when he was finishing this amazingwork of art. In the same way Michelangelo wrote to his father in 1509:"I am in agony. I have not dared to ask the Pope for anything, becausemy work does not make sufficient progress to merit any remuneration. Thework is too difficult, and indeed it is not my profession. I am wastingmy time to no purpose. Heaven help me!" For a year he had been workingat the ceiling of the Sixtine chapel. 

This is something more than a burst of modesty. No one had more pridethan Michelangelo or Wagner; but both felt the defects of their worklike a sharp wound. And although those defects do not prevent theirworks from being the glory of the human spirit, they are there just thesame. 

I do not want to dwell upon the inherent imperfections of Wagner'sdramas; they are really dramatic or epic symphonies, impossible to act, and gaining nothing from representation. This is especially true of_Tristan_, where the disparity between the storm of sentiment depicted, and the cold convention and enforced timidity of action on the stage, issuch that at certain moments--in the second act, for example--it painsand shocks one, and seems almost grotesque. 

But while admitting that _Tristan_ is a symphony that is not suitablefor representation, one also recognises its blemishes and, above all, its unevenness. The orchestration in the first act is often rather thin, and the plot lacks solidity. There are gaps and unaccountable holes, andmelodious lines left suspended in space. From beginning to end, lyricalbursts of melody are broken by declamations, or, what is worse, bydissertations. Frenzied whirlwinds of passion stop suddenly to giveplace to recitatives of explanation or argument. And although theserecitatives are nearly always a great relief, although thesemetaphysical reveries have a character of barbarous cunning that onerelishes, yet the superior beauty of the movements of pure poetry, emotion, and music is so evident, that this musical and philosophicaldrama serves to give one a distaste for philosophy and drama andeverything else that cramps and confines music. 

But the musical part of _Tristan_ is not free either from the faults ofthe work as a whole, for it, too, lacks unity. Wagner's music is made upof very diverse styles: one finds in it Italianisms and Germanisms andeven Gallicisms of every kind; there are some that are sublime, somethat are commonplace; and at times one feels the awkwardness of theirunion and the imperfections of their form. Then again, perhaps two ideasof equal originality come together and spoil each other by making toostrong a contrast. The fine lamentation of King Mark--thatpersonification of a knight of the Grail--is treated with suchmoderation and with so noble a scorn for outward show, that its pure, cold light is entirely lost after the glowing fire of the duet. 

The work suffers everywhere from a lack of balance. It is an almostinevitable defect, arising from its very grandeur. A mediocre work mayquite easily be perfect of its kind; but it is rarely that a work loftyaim attains perfection. A landscape of little dells and smiling meadowsis brought more readily into pleasing harmony than a landscape ofdazzling Alps, torrents, glaciers, and tempests; for the heights maysometimes overwhelm the picture and spoil the effect. And so it is withcertain great pages of _Tristan_. We may take for example the verseswhich tell of excruciating expectation--in the second act, Isolde'sexpectation on the night filled with desire; and, in the third act, Tristan's expectation, as he lies wounded and delirious, waiting for thevessel that brings Isolde and death--or we may take the Prelude, thatexpression of eternal desire that is like a restless sea for evermoaning and beating itself upon the shore. 

 * * * * *

The quality that touches me most deeply in _Tristan_ is the evidence ofhonesty and sincerity in a man who was treated by his enemies as acharlatan that used superficial and grossly material means to arrest andamaze the public eye. What drama is more sober or more disdainful ofexterior effect than _Tristan_? Its restraint is almost carried toexcess. Wagner rejected any picturesque episode in it that wasirrelevant to his subject. The man who carried all Nature in hisimagination, who at his will made the storms of the _Walküre_ rage, orthe soft light of Good Friday shine, would not even depict a bit of thesea round the vessel in the first act. Believe me, that must have been asacrifice, though he wished it so. It pleased him to enclose thisterrible drama within the four walls of a chamber of tragedy. There arehardly any choruses; there is nothing to distract one's attention fromthe mystery of human souls; there are only two real parts--those of thelovers; and if there is a third, it belongs to Destiny, into whose handsthe victims are delivered. What a fine seriousness there is in this loveplay. Its passion remains sombre and stern; there is no laughter in it, only a belief which is almost religious, more religious perhaps in itssincerity than that of _Parsifal_. 

It is a lesson for dramatists to see a man suppressing all frivoloustrifling and empty episodes in order to concentrate his subject entirelyon the inner life of two living souls. In that Wagner is our master, abetter, stronger, and more profitable master to follow, in spite of hismistakes, than all the other literary and dramatic authors of his time. 

 * * * * *

I see that criticism has filled a larger place in these notes than Imeant it to do. But in spite of that, I love _Tristan_; for me and forothers of my time it has long been an intoxicating draught. And it hasnever lost anything of its grandeur; the years have left its beautyuntouched, and it is for me the highest point of art reached by anyonesince Beethoven's death. 

But as I was listening to it the other evening I could not helpthinking: Ah, Wagner, you will one day go too, and join Gluck and Bachand Monteverde and Palestrina and all the great souls whose names stilllive among men, but whose thoughts are only felt by a handful of theinitiated, who try in vain to revive the past. You, also, are already ofthe past, though you were the steady light of our youth, the strongsource of life and death, of desire and renouncement, whence we drew ourmoral force and our power of resistance against the world. And theworld, ever greedy for new sensations, goes on its way amid theunceasing ebb and flow of its desires. Already its thoughts havechanged, and new musicians are making new songs for the future. But itis the voice of a century of tempest that passes with you. 

CAMILLE SAINT-SAËNS

M. Saint-Saëns has had the rare honour of becoming a classic during hislifetime. His name, though it was long unrecognised, now commandsuniversal respect, not less by his worth of character than by theperfection of his art. No artist has troubled so little about thepublic, or been more indifferent to criticism whether popular or expert. As a child he had a sort of physical repulsion for outward success:

 "De l'applaudissement J'entends encor le bruit qui, chose assez étrange, Pour ma pudeur d'enfant était comme une fange Dont le flot me venait toucher; je redoutais Son contact, et parfois, malin, je l'évitais, Affectant la raideur. "[110]

[Footnote 110:

 Of applause I still hear the noise; and, strangely enough, In my childish shyness it seemed like mire About to spot me; I feared Its touch, and secretly shunned it, Affecting obstinacy. 

These verses were read by M. Saint-Saëns at a concert given on 10 June, 1896, in the Salle Pleyel, to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of his_début_, which he made in 1846. It was in this same Salle Pleyel that hegave his first concert. ]

Later on, he achieved success by a long and painful struggle, in whichhe had to fight against the kind of stupid criticism that condemned him"to listen to one of Beethoven's symphonies as a penance likely to givehim the most excruciating torture. "[111] And yet after this, and afterhis admission to the Academy, after _Henry VIII_ and the _Symphonie avecorgue_, he still remained aloof from praise or blame, and judged histriumphs with sad severity:

 "Tu connaîtras les yeux menteurs, l'hypocrisie Des serrements de mains, Le masque d'amitié cachant la jalousie, Les pâles lendemains

 "De ces jours de triomphe où le troupeau vulgaire Qui pèse au même poids L'histrion ridicule et le génie austère Vous mets sur le pavois. "[112]

M. Saint-Saëns has now grown old, and his fame has spread abroad, but hehas not capitulated. Not many years ago he wrote to a German journalist:"I take very little notice of either praise or censure, not because Ihave an exalted idea of my own merits (which would be foolish), butbecause in doing my work, and fulfilling the function of my nature, asan apple-tree grows apples, I have no need to trouble myself with otherpeople's views. "[113]

[Footnote 111: C. Saint-Saëns, _Harmonie et Mélodie_, 1885. ]

[Footnote 112: C. Saint-Saëns, _Rimes familières_, 1890. 

 You will know the lying eyes, the insincerity Of pressures of the hand, The mask of friendship that hides jealousy. The tame to-morrows

 Of these days of triumph, when the vulgar herd Crowns you with honour; Judging rare genius to be Equal in merit to the wit of clowns. 

]

[Footnote 113: Letter written to M. Levin, the correspondent of the_Boersen-Courier_ of Berlin, 9 September, 1901. ]

Such independence is rare at any time; but it is very rare in our day, when the power of public opinion is tyrannical; and it is rarest of allin France, where artists are perhaps more sociable than in othercountries. Of all qualities in an artist it is the most precious; for itforms the foundation of his character, and is the guarantee of hisconscience and innate strength. So we must not hide it under a bushel. 

 * * * * *

The significance of M. Saint-Saëns in art is a double one, for one mustjudge him from the inside as well as the outside of France. He standsfor something exceptional in French music, something which was almostunique until just lately: that is, a great classical spirit and a finebreadth of musical culture--German culture, we must say, since thefoundation of all modern art rests on the German classics. French musicof the nineteenth century is rich in clever artists, imaginative writersof melody, and skilful dramatists; but it is poor in true musicians, andin good and solid workmanship. Apart from two or three splendidexceptions, our composers have too much the character of gifted amateurswho compose music as a pastime, and regard it, not as a special form ofthought, but as a sort of dress for literary ideas. Our musicaleducation is superficial: it may be got for a few years, in a formalway, at a Conservatoire, but it is not within reach of all; the childdoes not breathe music as, in a way, he breathes the atmosphere ofliterature and oratory; and although nearly everyone in France has aninstinctive feeling for beautiful writing, only a very few people carefor beautiful music. From this arise the common faults and failings inour music. It has remained a luxurious art; it has not become, likeGerman music, the poetical expression of the people's thought. 

To bring this about we should need a combination of conditions that arevery rare in France; though such conditions went to the making ofCamille Saint-Saëns. He had not only remarkable natural talent, but cameof a family of ardent musicians, who devoted themselves to hiseducation. At five years of age he was nourished on the orchestral scoreof _Don Juan_;[114] as a little boy

 "De dix ans, délicat, frêle, le teint jaunet, Mais confiant, naïf, plein d'ardeur et de joie, "[115]

he "measured himself against Beethoven and Mozart" by playing in apublic concert; at sixteen years of age he wrote his _PremièreSymphonie_. As he grew older he soaked himself in the music of Bach andHändel, and was able to compose at will after the manner of Rossini, Verdi, Schumann, and Wagner. [116] He has written excellent music in allstyles--the Grecian style, and that of the sixteenth, seventeenth, andeighteenth centuries. His compositions are of every kind: masses, grandoperas, light operas, cantatas, symphonies, symphonic poems; music forthe orchestra, the organ, the piano, the voice, and chamber music. He isthe learned editor of Gluck and Rameau; and is thus not only an artist, but an artist who can talk about his art. He is an unusual figure inFrance--one would have thought rather to find his home in Germany. 

[Footnote 114: C. Saint-Saëns, _Charles Gounod et le Don Juan deMozart_, 1894. ]

[Footnote 115:

 But ten years old, slightly built and pale, Yet full of simple confidence and joy (_Rimes familières_). 

]

[Footnote 116: Charles Gounod, _Mémoires d'un Artiste_, 1896. ]

In Germany, however, they make no mistake about him. There, the name ofCamille Saint-Saëns stands for the French classical spirit, and isthought worthiest to represent us in music from the time of Berliozuntil the appearance of the young school of César Franck--though Franckhimself is as yet little known in Germany. M. Saint-Saëns possesses, indeed, some of the best qualities of a French artist, and among themthe most important quality of all--perfect clearness of conception. Itis remarkable how little this learned artist is bothered by hislearning, and how free he is from all pedantry. Pedantry is the plagueof German art, and the greatest men have not escaped it. I am notspeaking of Brahms, who was ravaged with it, but of delightful geniuseslike Schumann, or of powerful ones like Bach. "This unnatural artwearies one like the sanctimonious salon of some little provincial town;it stifles one, it is enough to kill one. "[117] "Saint-Saëns is not apedant, " wrote Gounod; "he has remained too much of a child and becometoo clever for that. " Besides, he has always been too much of aFrenchman. 

[Footnote 117: Quoted from Saint-Saëns by Edmond Hippeau in _Henry VIIIet L'Opéra français_, 1883. M. Saint-Saëns speaks elsewhere of "theseworks, well written, but heavy and unattractive, and reflecting in atiresome way the narrow and pedantic spirit of certain little towns inGermany" (_Harmonie et Mélodie_). ]

Sometimes Saint-Saëns reminds me of one of our eighteenth-centurywriters. Not a writer of the _Encyclopédie_, nor one of Rousseau's camp, but rather of Voltaire's school. He has a clearness of thought, anelegance and precision of expression, and a quality of mind that makehis music "not only noble, but very noble, as coming of a fine race anddistinguished family. "[118]

He has also excellent discernment, of an unemotional kind; and he is"calm in spirit, restrained in imagination, and keeps his self-controleven in the midst of the most disturbing emotions. "[119] Thisdiscernment is the enemy of anything approaching obscurity of thought ormysticism; and its outcome was that curious book, _Problèmes etMystères_--a misleading title, for the spirit of reason reigns there andmakes an appeal to young people to protect "the light of a menacedworld" against "the mists of the North, Scandinavian gods, Indiandivinities, Catholic miracles, Lourdes, spiritualism, occultism, andobscurantism. "[120]

His love and need of liberty is also of the eighteenth century. One maysay that liberty is his only passion. "I am passionately fond ofliberty, " he wrote. [121]

[Footnote 118: Charles Gounod, _"Ascanio" de Saint-Saëns_, 1890. ]

[Footnote 119: _Id. , ibid. _]

[Footnote 120: C. Saint-Saëns, _Problèmes et Mystères_, 1894. ]

[Footnote 121: _Harmonie et Mélodie_. ]

And he has proved it by the absolute fearlessness of his judgments onart; for not only has he reasoned soundly against Wagner, but dared tocriticise the weaknesses of Gluck and Mozart, the errors of Weber andBerlioz, and the accepted opinions about Gounod; and this classicist, who was nourished on Bach, goes so far as to say: "The performance ofworks by Bach and Händel to-day is an idle amusement, " and that thosewho wish to revive their art are like "people who would live in an oldmansion that has been uninhabited for centuries. "[122] He went evenfurther; he criticised his own work and contradicted his own opinions. His love of liberty made him form, at different periods, differentopinions of the same work. He thought that people had a right to changetheir opinions, as sometimes they deceived themselves. It seemed to himbetter boldly to admit an error than to be the slave of consistency. Andthis same feeling showed itself in other matters besides art: in ethics, as is shown by some verses which he addressed to a young friend, urginghim not to be bound by a too rigid austerity:

 "Je sens qu'une triste chimère A toujours assombri ton âme: la Vertu. .. . "[123]

and in metaphysics also, where he judges religions, faith, and theGospels with a quiet freedom of thought, seeking in Nature alone thebasis of morals and society. 

[Footnote 122: C. Saint-Saëns, _Portraits et Souvenirs_, 1900. ]

[Footnote 123:

 I know that a vain dream of virtue Has always cast a shadow on your soul (_Rimes familières_). ]

Here are some of his opinions, taken at random from _Problèmes etMystères_:

 "As science advances, God recedes. "

 "The soul is only a medium for the expression of thought. "

 "The discouragement of work, the weakening of character, the sharing of one's goods under pain of death--this is the Gospel teaching on the foundation of society. "

 "The Christian virtues are not social virtues. "

 "Nature is without aim: she is an endless circle, and leads us nowhere. "

His thoughts are unfettered and full of love for humanity and a sense ofthe responsibility of the individual. He called Beethoven "the greatest, the only really great artist, " because he upheld the idea of universalbrotherhood. His mind is so comprehensive that he has written books onphilosophy, on the theatre, on classical painting, [124] as well asscientific essays, [125] volumes of verse, and even plays. [126]

[Footnote 124: C. Saint-Saëns, _Note sur les décors de théâtre dansl'antiquité romaine_, 1880, where he discusses the mural paintings ofPompeii. ]

[Footnote 125: Lecture on the Phenomena of Mirages, given to theAstronomical Society of France in 1905. ]

[Footnote 126: C. Saint-Saëns, _La Crampe des Écrivains_, a comedy inone act, 1892. ]

He has been able to take up all sorts of things, I will not say withequal skill, but with discernment and undeniable ability. He shows atype of mind rare among artists and, above all, among musicians. The twoprinciples that he enunciates and himself follows out are: "Keep freefrom all exaggeration" and "Preserve the soundness of your mind'shealth. "[127] They are certainly not the principles of a Beethoven or aWagner, and it would be rather difficult to find a noted musician of thelast century who had applied them. They tell us, without need ofcomment, what is distinctive about M. Saint-Saëns, and what is defectivein him. He is not troubled by any sort of passion. Nothing disturbs theclearness of his reason. "He has no prejudices; he takes noside"[128]--one might add, not even his own, since he is not afraid tochange his views--"he does not pose as a reformer of anything"; he isaltogether independent, perhaps almost too much so. He seems sometimesas if he did not know what to do with his liberty. Goethe would havesaid, I think, that he needed a little more of the devil in him. 

[Footnote 127: _Harmonie et Mélodie_. ]

[Footnote 128: Charles Gounod, _Mémoires d'un Artiste_. ]

His most characteristic mental trait seems to be a languid melancholy, which has its source in a rather bitter feeling of the futility oflife;[129] and this is accompanied by fits of weariness which are notaltogether healthy, followed by capricious moods and nervous gaiety, anda freakish liking for burlesque and mimicry. It is his eager, restlessspirit that makes him rush about the world writing Breton and Auvergnianrhapsodies, Persian songs, Algerian suites, Portuguese barcarolles, Danish, Russian, or Arabian caprices, souvenirs of Italy, Africanfantasias, and Egyptian concertos; and, in the same way, he roamsthrough the ages, writing Greek tragedies, dance music of the sixteenthand seventeenth centuries, and preludes and fugues of the eighteenth. But in all these exotic and archaic reflections of times and countriesthrough which his fancy wanders, one recognises the gay, intelligentcountenance of a Frenchman on his travels, who idly follows hisinclinations, and does not trouble to enter very deeply into the spiritof the people he meets, but gleans all he can, and then reproduces itwith a French complexion--after the manner of Montaigne in Italy, whocompared Verona to Poitiers, and Padua to Bordeaux, and who, when he wasin Florence, paid much less attention to Michelangelo than to "a verystrangely shaped sheep, and an animal the size of a large mastiff, shaped like a cat and striped with black and white, which they called atiger. "

[Footnote 129: _Les Heures; Mors; Modestie (Rimes familières_). ]

From a purely musical point of view there is some resemblance between M. Saint-Saëns and Mendelssohn. In both of them we find the sameintellectual restraint, the same balance preserved among theheterogeneous elements of their work. These elements are not common toboth of them, because the time, the country, and the surroundings inwhich they lived are not the same; and there is also a great differencein their characters. Mendelssohn is more ingenuous and religious; M. Saint-Saëns is more of a dilettante and more sensuous. They are not somuch kindred spirits by their science as good company by a common purityof taste, a sense of rhythm, and a genius for method, which gave allthey wrote a neo-classic character. 

As for the things that directly influenced M. Saint-Saëns, they are sonumerous that it would be difficult and rather bold of me to pretend tobe able to pick them out. His remarkable capacity for assimilation hasoften moved him to write in the style of Wagner or Berlioz, of Händel orRameau, of Lulli or Charpentier, or even of some English harpsichord orclavichord player of the sixteenth century, like William Byrd--whoseairs are introduced quite naturally in the music of _Henry VIII_; but wemust remember that these are deliberate imitations, the amusements of avirtuoso, about which M. Saint-Saëns never deceives himself. His memoryserves him as he pleases, but he is never troubled by it. 

As far as one can judge, M. Saint-Saëns' musical ideas are infused withthe spirit of the great classics belonging to the end of the eighteenthcentury--far more, whatever people may say, with the spirit ofBeethoven, Haydn, and Mozart, than with the spirit of Bach. Schumann'sseductiveness also left its mark upon him, and he has felt the influenceof Gounod, Bizet, and Wagner. But a stronger influence was that ofBerlioz, his friend and master, [130] and, above all, that of Liszt. Wemust stop at this last name. 

[Footnote 130: "Thanks to Berlioz, all my generation has been shaped, and well shaped" _(Portraits et Souvenirs_). ]

M. Saint-Saëns has good reason for liking Liszt, for Liszt was also alover of freedom, and had shaken off traditions and pedantry, andscorned German routine; and he liked him, too, because his music was areaction from the stiff school of Brahms. [131] He was enthusiastic aboutLiszt's work, and was one of the earliest and most ardent champions ofthat new music of which Liszt was the leading spirit--of that"programme" music which Wagner's triumph seemed to have nipped in thebud, but which has suddenly and gloriously burst into life again in theworks of Richard Strauss. "Liszt is one of the great composers of ourtime, " wrote M. Saint-Saëns; "he has dared more than either Weber, orMendelssohn, or Schubert, or Schumann. He has created the symphonicpoem. He is the deliverer of instrumental music. .. . He has proclaimedthe reign of free music. "[132] This was not said impulsively in a momentof enthusiasm; M. Saint-Saëns has always held this opinion. All his lifehe has remained faithful to his admiration of Liszt--since 1858, when hededicated a _Veni Creator_ to "the Abbé Liszt, " until 1886, when, a fewmonths after Liszt's death, he dedicated his masterpiece, the _Symphonicavec orgue_, "To the memory of Franz Liszt. "[133]

[Footnote 131: "I like Liszt's music so much, because he does not botherabout other people's opinions; he says what he wants to say; and theonly thing that he troubles about is to say it as well as he possiblycan" (Quoted by Hippeau). ]

[Footnote 132: The quotations are taken from _Harmonie et Mélodie_ and_Portraits et Souvenirs_. ]

[Footnote 133: In _Harmonie et Mélodie_ M. Saint-Saëns tells us that heorganised and directed a concert in the Théâtre-Italien where onlyLiszt's compositions were played. But all his efforts to make the Frenchmusical public appreciate Liszt were a failure. ]

"People have not hesitated to scoff at what they call my weakness forLiszt's works. But even if the feelings of affection and gratitude thathe inspired in me did come like a prism and interpose themselves betweenmy eyes and his face, I do not see anything greatly to be regretted init. [134] I had not yet felt the charm of his personal fascination, I hadneither heard nor seen him, and I did not owe him anything at all, whenmy interest was gripped in reading his first symphonic poems; and whenlater they pointed the way which was to lead to _La Danse macabre_, _LeRouet d'Omphale_, and other works of the same nature, I am sure that myjudgment was not biassed by any prejudice in his favour, and that Ialone was responsible for what I did. "[135]

[Footnote 134: The admiration was mutual. M. Saint-Saëns even said thatwithout Liszt he could not have written _Samson et Dalila_. "Not onlydid Liszt have _Samson et Dalila_ performed at Weimar, but without himthat work would never have come into being. My suggestions on thesubject had met with such hostility that I had given up the idea ofwriting it; and all that existed were some illegible notes. .. . Then atWeimar one day I spoke to Liszt about it, and he said to me, quitetrustingly and without having heard a note, 'Finish your work; I willhave it performed here. ' The events of 1870 delayed its performance forseveral years. " (_Revue Musicale_, 8 November, 1901). ]

[Footnote 135: _Portraits et Souvenirs_. ]

This influence seems to me to explain some of M. Saint-Saëns' work. Notonly is this influence evident in his symphonic poems--some of his bestwork--but it is to be found in his suites for orchestra, his fantasias, and his rhapsodies, where the descriptive and narrative element isstrong. "Music should charm unaided, " said M. Saint-Saëns; "but itseffect is much finer when we use our imagination and let it flow in someparticular channel, thus imaging the music. It is then that all thefaculties of the soul are brought into play for the same end. What artgains from this is not greater beauty, but a wider field for itsscope--that is, a greater variety of form and a larger liberty. "[136]

 * * * * *

And so we find that M. Saint-Saëns has taken part in the vigorousattempt of modern German symphony writers to bring into music some ofthe power of the other arts: poetry, painting, philosophy, romance, drama--the whole of life. But what a gulf divides them and him! A gulfmade up, not only of diversities of style, but of the difference betweentwo races and two worlds. Beside the frenzied outpourings of RichardStrauss, who flounders uncertainly between mud and debris and genius, the Latin art of Saint-Saëns rises up calm and ironical. His delicacy oftouch, his careful moderation, his happy grace, "which enters the soulby a thousand little paths, "[137] bring with them the pleasures ofbeautiful speech and honest thought; and we cannot but feel their charm. Compared with the restless and troubled art of to-day, his music strikesus by its calm, its tranquil harmonies, its velvety modulations, itscrystal clearness, its smooth and flowing style, and an elegance thatcannot be put into words. Even his classic coldness does us good by itsreaction against the exaggerations, sincere as they are, of the newschool. At times one feels oneself carried back to Mendelssohn, even toSpontini and the school of Gluck. One seems to be travelling in acountry that one knows and loves; and yet in M. Saint-Saëns' works onedoes not find any direct resemblance to the works of other composers;for with no one are reminiscences rarer than with this master whocarries all the old masters in his mind--it is his spirit that is akinto theirs. And that is the secret of his personality and his value tous; he brings to our artistic unrest a little of the light and sweetnessof other times. His compositions are like fragments of another world. 

[Footnote 136: _Harmonie et Mélodie_. ]

[Footnote 137: C. Saint-Saëns, _Portraits et Souvenirs_. ]

"From time to time, " he said, in speaking of _Don Giovanni_, "in thesacred earth of Hellene we find a fragment, an arm, the debris of atorso, scratched and damaged by the ravages of time; it is only theshadow of the god that the sculptor's chisel once created; but the charmis somehow still there, the sublime style is radiant in spite ofeverything. "[138]

And so with this music. It is sometimes a little pale, a little toorestrained; but in a phrase, in a few harmonies, there will shine out aclear vision of the past. 

[Footnote 138: _Portraits et Souvenirs_. ]

VINCENT D'INDY

 "I consider that criticism is useless, I would even say that it is harmful. .. . Criticism generally means the opinion some man or other holds about another person's work. How can that opinion help forward the growth of art? It is interesting to know the ideas, even the erroneous ideas, of geniuses and men of great talent, such as Goethe, Schumann, Wagner, Sainte-Beuve, and Michelet, when they wish to indulge in criticism; but it is of no interest at all to know whether Mr. So-and-so likes, or does not like, such-and-such dramatic or musical work. "[139]

So writes M. Vincent d'Indy. 

After such an expression of opinion one imagines that a critic ought tofeel some embarrassment in writing about M. Vincent d'Indy. And I myselfought to be the more concerned in the matter, for in the number of thereview where the above was written the only other opinions expressedwith equal conviction belonged to the author of this book. There is onlyone thing to be done--to copy M. D'Indy's example; for that forswornenemy of criticism is himself a keen critic. 

[Footnote 139: _Revue d'Art dramatique_, 5 February, 1899. ]

It is not altogether on M. D'Indy's musical gifts that I want to dwell. It is known that in Europe to-day he is one of the masters of dramaticmusical expression, of orchestral colouring, and of the science ofstyle. But that is not the end of his attainments; he has artisticoriginality, which springs from something deeper still. When an artisthas some worth, you will find it not only in his work but in his being. So we will endeavour to explore M. D'Indy's being. 

M. D'Indy's personality is not a mysterious one. On the contrary, it isopen and clear as daylight; and we see this in his musical work, in hisartistic activities, and in his writings. To his own writings we mayapply the exception of his rule about criticism in favour of a smallnumber of men whose thoughts are interesting even when they areerroneous. It would be a pity indeed not to know M. D'Indy'sthoughts--even the erroneous ones; for they let us catch a glimpse, notonly of the ideas of an eminent artist, but of certain surprisingcharacteristics of the thought of our time. M. D'Indy has closelystudied the history of his art; but the chief interest of his writingslies rather in their unconscious expression of the spirit of modern artthan in what they tell us about the past. 

M. D'Indy is not a man hedged in by the boundaries of his art; his mindis open and well fertilised. Musicians nowadays are no longer entirelyabsorbed in their notes, but let their minds go out to other interests. And it is not one of the least interesting phenomena of French musicto-day that gives us these learned and thoughtful composers, who areconscious of what they create, and bring to their art a keen criticalfaculty, like that of M. Saint-Saëns, M. Dukas, or M. D'Indy. From M. D'Indy we have had scholarly editions of Rameau, Destouches, and Salomonde Rossi. Even in the middle of rehearsals of _L'Étranger_ at Brusselshe was working at a reconstruction of Monteverde's _Orfeo_. He haspublished selections of folk-songs with critical notes, essays onBeethoven's predecessors, a history of Musical Composition, and debatesand lectures. This fine intellectual culture is not, however, the mostremarkable of M. D'Indy's characteristics, though it may have been themost remarked. Other musicians share this culture with him; and his realdistinction lies in his moral and almost religious qualities, and it isthis side of him that gives him an unusual interest for us among othercontemporary artists. 

 * * * * *

 "Maneant in vobis Fides, Spes, Caritas. Tria haec: major autem horum est Caritas. 

 "An artist must have at least Faith, faith in God and faith in his art; for it is Faith that disposes him to _learn_, and by his learning to raise himself higher and higher on the ladder of Being, up to his goal, which is God. 

 "An artist should practise Hope; for he can expect nothing from the present; he knows that his mission is to _serve_, and to give his work for the life and teaching of the generations that shall come after him. 

 "An artist should be inspired by a splendid Charity--'the greatest of these. ' To _love_ should be his aim in life; for the moving principle of all creation is divine and charitable Love. "

Who speaks like this? Is it the monk Denys in his cell at Mount Athos?Or Cennini, who spread the pious teaching of the Giotteschi? Or one ofthe old painters of Sienna, who in their profession of faith calledthemselves "by the grace of God, those who manifest marvellous things tocommon and illiterate men, by the virtue of the holy faith, and to itsglory"?

No; it was the director of the _Schola Cantorum_, addressing thestudents in an inaugural speech, or giving them a lecture onComposition. [140]

[Footnote 140: Vincent d'Indy: _Cours de Composition musicale_, Book I, drawn up from notes taken in Composition classes at the _ScholaCantorum_, 1897-1898, p. 16 (Durand, 1902). See also the inauguralspeech given at the school, and published by the _Tribune deSaint-Gervais_, November, 1900. ]

We must consider a little this singular book, where a living science anda Gothic spirit are closely intermingled (I use the word "Gothic" in itsbest sense; I know it is the highest praise one can give M. D'Indy). This work has not received the attention it deserves. It is a record ofthe spirit of contemporary art; and if it stands rather apart from otherwritings, it should not be allowed to pass unnoticed on that account. 

In this book, Faith is shown to be everything--the beginning and theend. We learn how it fans the flame of genius, nourishes thought, directs work, and governs even the modulations and the style of amusician. There is a passage in it that one would think was of thethirteenth century; it is curious, but not without dignity:

 "One should have an aim in the progressive march of modulations, as one has in the different stages of life. The reason, instincts, and faith that guide a man in the troubles of his life also guide the musician in his choice of modulations. Thus useless and contradictory modulations, an undecided balance between light and shade, produce a painful and confusing impression on the hearer, comparable to that which a poor human being inspires when he is feeble and inconsistent, buffeted between the East and the West in the course of his unhappy life, without an aim and without belief. "[141]

[Footnote 141: Vincent d'Indy, _Cours de Composition musicale_, p. 132. ]

This book seems to be of the Middle Ages by reason of a sort ofscholastic spirit of abstraction and classification. 

 "In artistic creation, seven faculties are called into play by the soul: the Imagination, the Affections, the Understanding, the Intelligence, the Memory, the Will, and the Conscience. "[142]

[Footnote 142: _Id. _, _ibid. _, p. 13. ]

And again its mediaeval spirit is shown by an extraordinary symbolism, which discovers in everything (as far as I understand it) the imprintof divine mysteries, and the mark of God in Three Persons in such thingsas the beating of the heart and ternary rhythms--"an admirableapplication of the principle of the Unity of the Trinity"![143]

From these remote times comes also M. D'Indy's method of writinghistory, not by tracing facts back to laws, but by deducing, on thecontrary, facts from certain great general ideas, which have once beenadmitted, but not proved by frequent recurrence, such as: "The origin ofart is in religion"[144]--a fact which is anything but certain. Fromthis reasoning it follows that folk-songs are derived from Gregorianchants, and not the Gregorian chants from the folk-songs--as I wouldsooner believe. The history of art may thus become a sort of history ofthe world in moral achievement. One could divide it into two parts: theworld before the coming of Pride, and after it. 

"Subdued by the Christian faith, that formidable enemy of man, Pride, rarely showed itself in the soul of an artist in the Middle Ages. Butwith the weakening of religious belief, with the spirit of theReformation applying itself almost at the same time to every branch ofhuman learning, we see Pride reappear, and watch its veritableRenaissance. "[145]

[Footnote 143: _Id. , ibid. _, p. 25. In the thirteenth century, Philippede Vitry, Bishop of Meaux, called triple time "perfect, " because "ithath its name from the Trinity, that is to say, from the Father, theSon, and the Holy Ghost, in whom is divine perfection. "]

[Footnote 144: _Id. , ibid. _, pp. 66, 83, and _passim_. ]

[Footnote 145: _Id. , ibid. _]

Finally, this Gothic spirit shows itself--in a less original way, it istrue--in M. D'Indy's religious antipathies, which, in spite of theauthor's goodness of heart and great personal tolerance, constantlybreak out against the two faiths that are rivals to his own; and to themhe attributes all the faults of art and all the vices of humanity. Eachhas its offence. Protestantism is made responsible for the extremes ofindividualism;[146] and Judaism, for the absurdities of its customs andthe weakness of its moral sense. [147] I do not know which of the two isthe more soundly belaboured; the second has the privilege of being so, not only in writing, but in pictures. [148] The worst of it is, theseantipathies are apt to spoil the fairness of M. D'Indy's artisticjudgment. It goes without saying that the Jewish musicians are treatedwith scant consideration; and even the great Protestant musicians, giants in their art, do not escape rebuke. If Goudimel is mentioned, itis because he was Palestrina's master, and his achievement of "turningthe Calvinist psalms into chorales" is dismissed as being of littleimportance. [149]

[Footnote 146: "Make war against Particularism, that unwholesome fruitof the Protestant heresy!" (Speech to the _Schola_, taken from the_Tribune de Saint-Gervais_, November, 1900. )]

[Footnote 147: At least Judaism has the honour of giving its name to awhole period of art, the "Judaic period. " "The modern style is the lastphase of the Judaic school. .. . " etc. ]

[Footnote 148: In the _Cours de Composition musicale_ M. D'Indy speaksof "the admirable initial T in the _Rouleau mortuaire_ of Saint-Vital(twelfth century), which represents Satan vomiting two Jews . .. Anexpressive and symbolic work of art, if ever there was one. " I shouldnot mention this but for the fact that there are only two illustrationsin the whole book. ]

[Footnote 149: _Cours de Composition musicale_, p. 160. ]

Händel's oratorios are spoken of as "chilling, and, frankly speaking, tedious. "[150] Bach himself escapes with this qualification: "If he isgreat, it is not because of, but in spite of the dogmatic and parchingspirit of the Reformation. "[151]

I will not try to play the part of judge; for a man is sufficientlyjudged by his own writings. And, after all, it is rather interesting tomeet people who are sincere and not afraid to speak their minds. I willadmit that I rather enjoy--a little perversely, perhaps--some of theseextreme opinions, where the writer's personality stands stronglyrevealed. 

[Footnote 150: _L'Oratorio moderne_ (_Tribune de Saint-Gervais_, March, 1899). ]

[Footnote 151: _Ibid. _ As much as to say he was a Catholic withoutknowing it. And that is what a friend of the _Schola_, M. Edgar Tinel, declares: "Bach is a truly Christian artist and, without doubt, _aProtestant by mistake_, since in his immortal _Credo_ he confesses hisfaith in one holy, catholic, and apostolic Church" (_Tribune deSaint-Gervais_, August-September, 1902). M. Edgar Tinel was, as youknow, one of the principal masters of Belgian oratorio. ]

So the old Gothic spirit still lives among us, and informs the mind ofone of our best-known artists, and also, without doubt, the minds ofhundreds of those who listen to him and admire him. M. Louis Laloy hasshown the persistence of certain forms of plain-song in M. Debussy's_Pelléas_; and in a dim sense of far-away kinship he finds the cause ofthe mysterious charm that such music holds for some of us. [152] Thislearned paradox is possible. Why not? The mixtures of race and thevicissitudes of history have given us so full and complex a soul that wemay very well find its beginnings there, if it pleases us--or thebeginnings of quite other things. Of beginnings there is no end; thechoice is quite embarrassing, and I imagine one's inclination has asmuch to do with the matter as one's temperament. 

[Footnote 152: _Revue musicale_, November, 1902. ]

However that may be, M. D'Indy hails from the Middle Ages, and not fromantiquity (which does not exist for him[153]), or from the Renaissance, which he confounds with the Reformation (though the two sisters areenemies) in order to crush it the better. [154] "Let us take for models, "he says, "the fine workers in art of the Middle Ages. "[155]

 * * * * *

In this return to the Gothic spirit, in this awakening of faith, thereis a name--a modern one this time--that they are fond of quoting at the_Schola_; it is that of César Franck, under whose direction the littleConservatoire in the Rue Saint-Jacques was placed. And indeed they couldquote no better name than that of this simple-hearted man. Nearly allwho came into contact with him felt his irresistible charm--a charm thathas perhaps a great deal to do with the influence that his works stillhave on French music to-day. None has felt Franck's power, both morallyand musically, more than M. Vincent d'Indy; and none holds a moreprofound reverence for the man whose pupil he was for so long. 

[Footnote 153: "The only documents extant on ancient music are eithercriticisms or appreciations, and not musical texts" (_Cours deComposition_). ]

[Footnote 154: "The influence of the Renaissance, with its pretensionand vanity, caused a check in all the arts--the effect of which we arestill feeling" (_Traité de Composition_, p. 89. See also the passagequoted before on Pride). ]

[Footnote 155: _Tribune de Saint-Gervais_, November, 1900. ]

The first time I saw M. D'Indy was at a concert of the _Sociéténationale_, in the Salle Pleyel, in 1888. They were playing several ofFranck's works; among others, for the first time, his admirable _Thème, fugue, et variation_, for the harmonium and pianoforte, a composition inwhich the spirit of Bach is mingled with a quite modern tenderness. Franck was conducting, and M. D'Indy was at the pianoforte. I shallalways remember his reverential manner towards the old musician, and howcareful he was to follow his directions; one would have said he was adiligent and obedient pupil. It was a touching homage from one who hadalready proved himself a master by works like _Le Chant de la cloche_, _Wallenstein_, _La Symphonie sur un thème montagnard_, and who wasperhaps at that time better known and more popular than César Franckhimself. Since then twenty years have passed, and I still see M. D'Indyas I saw him that evening; and, whatever may happen in the future, hismemory for me will be always associated with that of the grand oldartist, presiding with his fatherly smile over the little gathering ofthe faithful. 

Of all the characteristics of Franck's fine moral nature, the mostremarkable was his religious faith. It must have astonished the artistsof his time, who were even more destitute of such a thing than they arenow. It made itself felt in some of his followers, especially in thosewho were near the master's heart, as M. D'Indy was. The religiousthought of the latter reflects in some degree the thought of his master;though the shape of that thought may have undergone unconsciousalteration. I do not know if Franck altogether fits the conceptionpeople have of him to-day. I do not want to introduce personal memoriesof him here. I knew him well enough to love him, and to catch a glimpseof the beauty and sincerity of his soul; but I did not know him wellenough to discover the secrets of his mind. Those who had the happinessof being his intimate friends seem always to represent him as a mysticwho shut himself away from the spirit of his time. I hope at some futuredate one of his friends will publish some of the conversations that hehad with him, of which I have heard. But this man who had so strong afaith was also very independent. In his religion he had no doubts: itwas the mainspring of his life; though faith with him was much more amatter of feeling than a matter of doctrine. But all was feeling withFranck, and reason made little appeal to him. His religious faith didnot disturb his mind, for he did not measure men and their works by itsrules; and he would have been incapable of putting together a history ofart according to the Bible. This great Catholic had at times a verypagan soul; and he could enjoy without a qualm the musical dilettantismof Renan and the sonorous nihilism of Leconte de Lisle. There were nolimits to his vast sympathies. He did not attempt to criticise the thinghe loved--understanding was already in his heart. Perhaps he was right;and perhaps there was more trouble in the depths of his heart than thevaliant serenity of its surface would lead us to believe. 

His faith too. .. . I know how dangerous it is to interpret a musician'sfeelings by his music; but how can we do otherwise when we are told byFranck's followers that the expression of the soul is the only end andaim of music? Do we find his faith, as expressed through his musicalways full of peace and calm?[156] I ask those who love that musicbecause they find some of their own sadness reflected there. Who has notfelt the secret tragedies that some of his musical passagesenfold--those short, characteristically abrupt phrases which seem torise in supplication to God, and often fall back in sadness and intears? It is not all light in that soul; but the light that is theredoes not affect us less because it shines from afar, "Dans un écartement de nuages, qui laisse Voir au-dessus des mers la céleste allégresse. .. . "[157]

[Footnote 156: I speak of the passages where he expresses himselffreely, and is not interpreting a dramatic situation necessary to hissubject, as in that fine symphonic part of the _Rédemption_, where hedescribes the triumph of Christ. But even there we find traces ofsadness and suffering. ]

[Footnote 157: Through a break in the clouds, revealing Celestial joyshining above the deeps. ]

And so Franck seems to me to differ from M. D'Indy in that he has notthe latter's urgent desire for clearness. 

 * * * * *

Clearness is the distinguishing quality of M. D'Indy's mind. There areno shadows about him. His ideas and his art are as clear as the lookthat gives so much youth to his face. For him to examine, to arrange, to classify, to combine, is a necessity. No one is more French inspirit. He has sometimes been taxed with Wagnerism, and it is true thathe has felt Wagner's influence very strongly. But even when thisinfluence is most apparent it is only superficial: his true spirit isremote from Wagner's. You may find in _Fervaal_ a few trees like thosein _Siegfried's_ forest; but the forest itself is not the same; broadavenues have been cut in it, and daylight fills the caverns of theNiebelungs. 

This love of clearness is the ruling factor of M. D'Indy's artisticnature. And this is the more remarkable, for his nature is far frombeing a simple one. By his wide musical education and his constantthirst for knowledge he has acquired a very varied and almostcontradictory learning. It must be remembered that M. D'Indy is amusician familiar with the music of other countries and other times; allkinds of musical forms are floating in his mind; and he seems sometimesto hesitate between them. He has arranged these forms into threeprincipal classes, which seem to him to be models of musical art: thedecorative art of the singers of plain-song, the architectural art ofPalestrina and his followers, and the expressive art of the greatItalians of the seventeenth century. [158] But in doing this is not hiseclecticism trying to reconcile arts that are naturally disunited?Again, we must remember that M. D'Indy has had direct or indirectcontact with some of the greatest musical personalities of our time:with Wagner, Liszt, Brahms, and César Franck. 

[Footnote 158: _Tribune de Saint-Gervais_ November, 1900. ]

And he has been readily attracted by them; for he is not one of thoseegotistic geniuses whose thoughts are fixed on his own interests, norhas he one of those carnivorous minds that sees nothing, looks fornothing, and relishes nothing, unless it may be afterwards useful to it. His sympathies are readily with others, he is happy in giving homage totheir greatness, and quick to appreciate their charm. He speakssomewhere of the "irresistible need of transformation" that every artistfeels. [159] But in order to escape being overwhelmed by conflictingelements and interests, one should have great force of feeling or will, in order to be able to eliminate what is not necessary, and choose outand transform what is. M. D'Indy eliminates hardly anything; he makesuse of it. In his music he exercises the qualities of an army general:understanding of his purpose and the patience to attain it, a perfectknowledge of the means at his disposal, the spirit of order, and commandover his work and himself. Despite the variety of the materials heemploys, the whole is always clear. One might almost reproach him withbeing too clear; he seems to simplify too much. 

Nothing helps one to grasp the essence of M. D'Indy's personality morethan his last dramatic work. His personality shows itself plainly in allhis compositions, but nowhere is it more evident than in_L'Étranger_. [160]

[Footnote 159: _Id. _, September, 1899. ]

[Footnote 160: _L'Étranger_, "action musicale" in two acts. Poem andmusic by M. Vincent d'Indy. Played for the first time at Brussels in theThéâtre de la Monnaie, 7 January, 1903. The quotations from the drama, whose poetry is not as good as its music, are taken from the score. ]

The scene of _L'Étranger_ is laid in France, by the sea, whose murmuringcalm we hear in a symphonic introduction. The fishermen are coming backto port; the fishing has been bad. But one among them, "a man aboutforty years old, with a sad and dignified air, " has been more fortunatethan the others. The fishermen envy him, and vaguely suspect him ofsorcery. He tries to enter into friendly conversation with them, andoffers his catch to a poor family. But in vain; his advances arerepulsed and his generosity is eyed with suspicion. He is astranger--the Stranger. [161] Evening falls, and the angelus rings. Somework-girls come trooping out of their workshop, singing a merryfolk-song. [162] One of the young girls, Vita, goes up to the Strangerand speaks to him, for she alone, of all the village, is his friend. Thetwo feel themselves drawn together by a secret sympathy. Vita confidesartlessly in the unknown man; they love each other though they do notadmit it. The Stranger tries to repress his feelings; for Vita is youngand already affianced, and he thinks that he has no right to claim her. But Vita, offended by his coldness, seeks to wound him, and succeeds. In the end he betrays himself. "Yes, he loves her, and she knew it well. But now that he has told her so, he will never see her again; and hebids her good-bye. "

[Footnote 161: There is a certain likeness in the subject to HerrRichard Strauss's _Feuersnot_. There, too, the hero is a stranger who ispersecuted, and treated as a sorcerer in the very town to which he hasbrought honour. But the _dénouement_ is not the same; and thefundamental difference of temperament between the two artists isstrongly marked. M. D'Indy finishes with the renouncement of aChristian, and Herr Richard Strauss by a proud and joyous affirmation ofindependence. ]

[Footnote 162: Found by M. D'Indy in his own province, as he tells us inhis _Chansons populaires du Vivarais_. ]

That is the first act. Up to this point we seem to be witnessing a veryhuman and realistic drama--the ordinary story of the man who tries to dogood and receives ingratitude, and the sad tragedy of old age that comesto a heart still young and unable to resign itself to growing old. Butthe music puts us on our guard. We had heard its religious tone when theStranger was speaking, and it seemed to us that we recognised aliturgical melody in the principal theme. What secret is being hiddenfrom us? Are we not in France? Yet, in spite of the folk-song and apassing breath of the sea, the atmosphere of the Church and César Franckis evident. Who is this Stranger?

He tells us in the second act. 

 "My name? I have none. I am He who dreams; I am He who loves. I have passed through many countries, and sailed on many seas, loving the poor and needy, dreaming of the happiness of the brotherhood of man. "

 "Where have I seen you?--for I know you. "

 "Where? you ask. But everywhere: under the warm sun of the East, by the white oceans of the Pole. .. . I have found you everywhere, for you are Beauty itself, you are immortal Love!"

The music is not without a certain nobility, and bears the imprint ofthe calm, strong spirit of belief. But I was sorry that the story wasonly about a mere entity when I had been getting interested in a man. Ican never understand the attraction of this kind of symbolism. Unless itis allied to sublime powers of creation in metaphysics or morals--suchas that possessed by a Goethe or an Ibsen--I do not see what suchsymbolism can add to life, though I see very well what it takes awayfrom it. But it is, after all, a matter of taste; and, anyway, there isnothing in this story to astonish us greatly. This transition fromrealism to symbolism is something in opera with which we have grown onlytoo familiar since the time of Wagner. 

But the story does not stop there; for we leave symbolic abstractions toenter a still more extraordinary domain, which is removed even fartherstill from realities. 

There had been some talk at the beginning of an emerald that sparkled inthe Stranger's cap; and this emerald now takes its turn in the action ofthe piece. "It had sparkled formerly in the bows of the boat thatcarried the body of Lazarus, the friend of our Master, Jesus; and theboat had safely reached the port of the Phoceans--without a helm orsails or oars. For by this miraculous stone a clean and upright heartcould command the sea and the winds. " But now that the Stranger has doneamiss, by falling a victim to passion, its power is gone; so he gives itto Vita. 

Then follows a real scene in fairyland. Vita stands before the sea andinvokes it in an incantation full of weird and beautiful vocal music:"O sea! Sinister sea with your angry charm, gentle sea with your kiss ofdeath, hear me!" And the sea replies in a song. Voices mingle with theorchestra in a symphony of increasing anger. Vita swears she will giveherself to no one but the Stranger. She lifts the emerald above herhead, and it shines with a lurid light. "'Receive, O sea, as a token ofmy oath, the sacred stone, the holy emerald! Then may its power be nolonger invoked, and none may know again its protecting virtue. Jealoussea, take back your own, the last offering of a betrothed!' With animpressive gesture she throws the emerald into the waves, and a darkgreen light suddenly shines out against the black sky. This supernaturallight slowly spreads over the water until it reaches the horizon, andthe sea begins to roll in great billows. " Then the sea takes up its songin an angrier tone; the orchestra thunders, and the storm bursts. 

The boats put hurriedly back to land, and one of them seems likely to bedashed to pieces on the shore. The whole village turns out to watch thedisaster; but the men refuse to risk their lives in aid of theshipwrecked crew. Then the Stranger gets into a boat, and Vita jumps inafter him. The squall redoubles in violence. A wave of enormous heightbreaks on the jetty, flooding the scene with a dazzling green light. Thecrowd recoil in fear. There is a silence; and an old fisherman takes offhis woollen cap and intones the _De Profundis_. The villagers take upthe chant. .. . 

One may see by this short account what a heterogeneous work it is. Twoor three quite different worlds are brought into it: the realism of thebourgeois characters of Vita's mother and lover is mixed up withsymbolisms of Christianity, represented by the Stranger, and with thefairy-tale of the magic emerald and the voices of the ocean. Thiscomplexity, which is evident enough in the poem, is even more evident inthe music, where a union of different arts and different ideas isattempted. We get the art of the folk-song, religious art, the art ofWagner, the art of Franck, as well as a note of familiar realism (whichis something akin to the Italian _opéra-bouffe_) and descriptions ofsensation that are quite personal. As there are only two short acts, therapidity of the action only serves to accentuate this impression. Thechanges are very abrupt: we are hurried from a world of human beings toa world of abstract ideas, and then taken from an atmosphere of religionto a land of fairies. The work is, however, clear enough from a musicalpoint of view. The more complex the elements that M. D'Indy gathersround him the more anxious he is to bring them into harmony. It is adifficult task, and is only possible when the different elements arereduced to their simplest expression and brought down to theirfundamental qualities--thus depriving them of the spice of theirindividuality. M. D'Indy puts different styles and ideas on the anvil, and then forges them vigorously. It is natural that here and there weshould see the mark of the hammer, the imprint of his determination; butit is only by his determination that he welded the work into a solidwhole. 

Perhaps it is determination that brings unity now and then into M. D'Indy's spirit. With reference to this, I will dwell upon one pointonly, since it is curious, and seems to me to be of general artisticinterest. M. D'Indy writes his own poems for his "_actionsmusicales_"--Wagner's example, it seems, has been catching. We have seenhow the harmony of a work may suffer through the dual gifts of itsauthor; though he may have thought to perfect his composition by writingboth words and music. But an artist's poetical and musical gifts are notnecessarily of the same order. A man has not always the same kind oftalent in other arts that he has in the art which he has made his own--Iam speaking not only of his technical skill, but of his temperament aswell. Delacroix was of the Romantic school in painting, but inliterature his style was Classic. We have all known artists who wererevolutionaries in their own sphere, but conservative and behind thetimes in their opinions about other branches of art. The double gift ofpoetry and music is in M. D'Indy up to a certain point. But is hisreason always in agreement with his heart?[163]

[Footnote 163: In his criticisms his heart is not always in agreementwith his mind. His mind denounces the Renaissance, but his instinctobliges him to appreciate the great Florentine painters of theRenaissance and the musicians of the sixteenth century. He only gets outof the difficulty by the most extraordinary compromises, by saying thatGhirlandajo and Filippo Lippi were Gothic, or by stating that theRenaissance in music did not begin till the seventeenth century! (_Coursde Composition_, pp. 214 and 216. )]

Of course his nature is too dignified to let the quarrel be shownopenly. His heart obeys the commands of his reason, or compromises withit, and by seeming respectful of authority saves appearances. Hisreason, represented here by the poet, likes simple, realistic, andrelevant action, together with moral or even religious teaching. Hisheart, represented by the musician, is romantic; and if he followed italtogether he would wander off to any subject that enabled him toindulge in his love of the picturesque, such as the descriptivesymphony, or even the old form of opera. 

For myself, I am in sympathy with his heart; and I find his heart is inthe right, and his reason in the wrong. There is nothing that M. D'Indyhas made more his own than the art of painting landscapes in music. There is one page in _Fervaal_ at the beginning of Act II which calls upmisty mountain tops covered with pine forests; there is another page in_L'Étranger_ where one sees strange lights glimmering on the sea while astorm is brooding. [164] I should like to see M. D'Indy give himself upfreely, in spite of all theories, to this descriptive lyricism, in whichhe so excels; or I wish at least he would seek inspiration in a subjectwhere both his religious beliefs and his imagination could findsatisfaction: a subject such as one of the beautiful episodes of theGolden Legend, or the one which _L'Étranger_ itself recalls--theromantic voyage of the Magdalen in Provence. But it is foolish to wishan artist to do anything but the thing he likes; he is the best judgeof what pleases him. 

[Footnote 164: Act III, scene 3. The power of that evocation is sostrong that it carries the poet along with it. It would seem that partof the action had only been conceived with a view to the final effect ofthe sudden colouring of the waves. ]

 * * * * *

In this sketchy portrait I must not forget one of the finest of thiscomposer's gifts--his talent as a teacher of music. Everything hasfitted M. D'Indy for this part. By his knowledge and his precise, orderly mind he must be a perfect teacher of composition. If I submitsome question of harmony or melodic phrasing to his analysis, the resultis the essence of clear, logical reasoning; and if the reasoning is alittle dry and simplifies the thing almost too much, it is still veryilluminating and from the hand of a master of French prose. And in thisI find him exercising the same consistent instinct of good sense andsincerity, the same art of development, the same seventeenth andeighteenth century principles of classic rhetoric that he applies to hismusic. In truth, M. D'Indy could write a musical _Discourse on Style_, if he wished. 

But, above all, he is gifted with the moral qualities of a teacher--thevocation for teaching, first of all. He has a firm belief in theabsolute duty of giving instruction in art, and, what is rarer still, inthe efficacious virtue of that teaching. He readily shares Tolstoy'sscorn, which he sometimes quotes, of the foolishness of art for art'ssake. 

 "At the bottom of art is this essential condition--teaching. The aim of art is neither gain nor glory; the true aim of art is to teach, to elevate gradually the spirit of humanity; in a word, to serve in the highest sense--'_dienen_' as Wagner says by the mouth of the repentant Kundry, in the third act of Parsifal. "[165]

There is in this a mixture of Christian humility and aristocratic pride. M. D'Indy has a sincere desire for the welfare of humanity, and he lovesthe people; but he treats them with an affectionate kindness, at onceprotective and tolerant; he regards them as children that must beled. [166]

[Footnote 165: _Cours de Composition_, and _Tribune de Saint-Gervais_. ]

[Footnote 166: _Cours de Composition_. ]

The popular art that he extols is not an art belonging to the people, but that of an aristocracy interested in the people. He wishes toenlighten them, to mould them, to direct them, by means of art. Art isthe source of life; it is the spirit of progress; it gives the mostprecious of possessions to the soul--liberty. And no one enjoys thisliberty more than the artist. In a lecture to the _Schola_ he said:

 "What makes the name of 'artist' so splendid is that the artist is free--absolutely free. Look about you, and tell me if from this point of view there is any career finer than that of an artist who is conscious of his mission? The Army? The Law? The University? Politics?"

And then follows a rather cold appreciation of these different careers. 

 "There is no need to mention the excessive bureaucracy and officialism which is the crying evil of this country. We find everywhere submission to rules and servitude to the State. But what government, pope, emperor, or president could oblige an artist to think and write against his will? Liberty--that is the true wealth and the most precious inheritance of the artist, the liberty to think, and the liberty that no one has the power to take away from us--that of doing our work according to the dictates of our conscience. "

Who does not feel the infectious warmth and beauty of these spiritedwords? How this force of enthusiasm and sincerity must grip all youngand eager hearts. "There are two qualities, " says M. D'Indy, on the lastpage of _Cours de Composition_, "which a master should try to encourageand develop in the spirit of the pupil, for without them science isuseless; these qualities are an unselfish love of art and enthusiasm forgood work. " And these two virtues radiate from M. D'Indy's personalityas they do from his writings; that is his power. 

But the best of his teaching lies in his life. One can never speak toohighly of his disinterested devotion for the good of art. As if it werenot enough to put all his might into his own creations, M. D'Indy giveshis time and the results of his study unsparingly to others. Franck gavelessons in order to be able to live; M. D'Indy gives them for thepleasure of instructing, and to serve his art and aid artists. Hedirects schools, and accepts and almost seeks out the most thankless, though the most necessary, kinds of teaching. Or he will apply himselfdevoutly to the study of the past and the resuscitation of some oldmaster. And he seems to take so much pleasure in training young minds toappreciate music, or in repairing the injustices of history to some finebut forgotten musician, that he almost forgets about himself. To whatwork or to what worker, worthy of interest, or seeming to be so, has heever refused his advice and help? I have known his kindness personally, and I shall always be sincerely grateful for it. 

His devotion and his faith have not been in vain. The name of M. D'Indywill be associated in history, not only with fine works, but with greatworks: with the _Société Nationale de Musique_, of which he ispresident; with the _Schola Cantorum_, which he founded with CharlesBordes, and which he directs; with the young French school of music, agroup of skilful artists and innovators, to whom he is a kind of elderbrother, giving them encouragement by his example and helping themthrough the first hard years of struggle; and, lastly, with an awakeningof music in Europe, with a movement which, after the death of Wagner andFranck, attracted the interest of the world by its revival of the art ofthe Middle Ages and the Renaissance. M. D'Indy has been the chiefrepresentative of all this artistic evolution in France. By his deeds, by his example, and by his spirit, he was among the first to stir upinterest in the musical education of France to-day. He has done morefor the advancement of our music than the entire official teaching ofthe Conservatoires A day will come when, by the force of things and inspite of all resistance, such a man will take the place that belongs tohim at the head of the organisation of music in France. 

 * * * * *

I have tried to unearth M. D'Indy's strongest characteristics, and Ithink I have found them in his faith and in his activity, I am only tooaware of the pitfalls that have beset me in this attempt; it is alwaysdifficult to criticise a man's personality, and it is most difficultwhen he is alive and still in the midst of his development. Every man isa mystery, not only to others, but to himself. There is something verypresumptuous about pretending to know anyone who does not quite knowhimself. And yet one cannot live without forming opinions; it is anecessity of life. The people we see and know (or say we know), ourfriends, and those we love, are never what we think them. Often they arenot at all like the portrait we conjure up; for we walk among thephantoms of our hearts. But still one must go on having opinions, and goon constructing and creating things, if we do not want to becomeimpotent through inertia. Error is better than doubt, provided we err ingood faith; and the main thing is to speak out the thing that one reallyfeels and believes. I hope M. D'Indy will forgive me if I have gone farwrong, and that he will see in these pages a sincere effort tounderstand him and a keen sympathy with himself, and even with hisideas, though I do not always share them. But I have always thought thatin life a man's opinions go for very little, and that the only thingthat matters is the man himself. Freedom of spirit is the greatesthappiness one can know; one must be sorry for those who have not got it. And there is a secret pleasure in rendering homage to another's splendidcreed, even though it is one that we do not ourselves profess. 

RICHARD STRAUSS

The composer of _Heldenleben_ is no longer unknown to Parisians. Everyyear at Colonne's or Chevillard's we see his tall, thin silhouettereappear in the conductor's desk. There he is with his abrupt andimperious gestures, his wan and anxious face, his wonderfully cleareyes, restless and penetrating at the same time, his mouth shaped like achild's, a moustache so fair that it is nearly white, and curly hairgrowing like a crown above his high round forehead. 

I should like to try to sketch here the strange and arrestingpersonality of the man who in Germany is considered the inheritor ofWagner's genius--the man who has had the audacity to write, afterBeethoven, an Heroic Symphony, and to imagine himself the hero. 

 * * * * *

Richard Strauss is thirty-four years old. [167] He was born in Munich on11 June, 1864. His father, a well-known virtuoso, was first horn in theRoyal orchestra, and his mother was a daughter of the brewer Pschorr. Hewas brought up among musical surroundings. At four years old he playedthe piano, and at six he composed little dances, _Lieder_, sonatas, andeven overtures for the orchestra. Perhaps this extreme artisticprecocity has had something to do with the feverish character of histalents, by keeping his nerves in a state of tension and unduly excitinghis mind. At school he composed choruses for some of Sophocles'tragedies. In 1881, Hermann Levi had one of the young collegian'ssymphonies performed by his orchestra. At the University he spent histime in writing instrumental music. Then Bülow and Radecke made him playin Berlin; and Bülow, who became very fond of him, had him brought toMeiningen as _Musikdirector_. From 1886 to 1889 he held the same post atthe _Hoftheater_ in Munich. From 1889 to 1894 he was _Kapellmeister_ atthe _Hoftheater_ in Weimar. He returned to Munich in 1894 as_Hofkapellmeister_, and in 1897 succeeded Hermann Levi. Finally, he leftMunich for Berlin, where at present he conducts the orchestra of theRoyal Opera. 

[Footnote 167: This essay was written in 1899. ]

Two things should be particularly noted in his life: the influence ofAlexander Ritter--to whom he has shown much gratitude--and his travelsin the south of Europe. He made Ritter's acquaintance in 1885. Thismusician was a nephew of Wagner's, and died some years ago. His music ispractically unknown in France, though he wrote two well-known operas, _Fauler Hans_ and _Wem die Krone_? and was the first composer, accordingto Strauss, to introduce Wagnerian methods into the _Lied_. He is oftendiscussed in Bülow's and Liszt's letters. "Before I met him, " saysStrauss, "I had been brought up on strictly classical lines; I had livedentirely on Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven, and had just been studyingMendelssohn, Chopin, Schumann, and Brahms. It is to Ritter alone I amindebted for my knowledge of Liszt and Wagner; it was he who showed methe importance of the writings and works of these two masters in thehistory of art. It was he who by years of lessons and kindly counselmade me a musician of the future (_Zukunftsmusiker_), and set my feet ona road where now I can walk unaided and alone. It was he also whoinitiated me in Schopenhauer's philosophy. "

The second influence, that of the South, dates from April, 1886, andseems to have left an indelible impression upon Strauss. He visited Romeand Naples for the first time, and came back with a symphonic fantasiacalled _Aus Italien_. In the spring of 1892, after a sharp attack ofpneumonia, he travelled for a year and a half in Greece, Egypt, andSicily. The tranquillity of these favoured countries filled him withnever-ending regret. The North has depressed him since then, "theeternal grey of the North and its phantom shadows without a sun. "[168]When I saw him at Charlottenburg, one chilly April day, he told me witha sigh that he could compose nothing in winter, and that he longed forthe warmth and light of Italy. His music is infected by that longing;and it makes one feel how his spirit suffers in the gloom of Germany, and ever yearns for the colours, the laughter, and the joy of the South. 

[Footnote 168: Nietzsche. ]

Like the musician that Nietzsche dreamed of, [169] he seems "to hearringing in his ears the prelude of a deeper, stronger music, perhaps amore wayward and mysterious music; a music that is super-German, which, unlike other music, would not die away, nor pale, nor grow dull besidethe blue and wanton sea and the clear Mediterranean sky; a musicsuper-European, which would hold its own even by the dark sunsets of thedesert; a music whose soul is akin to the palm trees; a music that knowshow to live and move among great beasts of prey, beautiful and solitary;a music whose supreme charm is its ignorance of good and evil. Only fromtime to time perhaps there would flit over it the longing of the sailorfor home, golden shadows, and gentle weaknesses; and towards it wouldcome flying from afar the thousand tints of the setting of a moral worldthat men no longer understood; and to these belated fugitives it wouldextend its hospitality and sympathy. " But it is always the North, themelancholy of the North, and "all the sadness of mankind, " mentalanguish, the thought of death, and the tyranny of life, that come andweigh down afresh his spirit hungering for light, and force it intofeverish speculation and bitter argument. Perhaps it is better so. 

[Footnote 169: _Beyond Good and Evil_, 1886. I hope I may be excused forintroducing Nietzsche here, but his thoughts seem constantly to bereflected in Strauss, and to throw much light on the soul of modernGermany. ]

 * * * * *

Richard Strauss is both a poet and a musician. These two natures livetogether in him, and each strives to get the better of the other. Thebalance is not always well maintained; but when he does succeed inkeeping it by sheer force of will the union of these two talents, directed to the same end, produces an effect more powerful than anyknown since Wagner's time. Both natures have their source in a mindfilled with heroic thoughts--a rarer possession, I consider, than atalent for either music or poetry. There are other great musicians inEurope; but Strauss is something more than a great musician, for he isable to create a hero. 

When one talks of heroes one is thinking of drama. Dramatic art iseverywhere in Strauss's music, even in works that seem least adapted toit, such as his _Lieder_ and compositions of pure music. It is mostevident in his symphonic poems, which are the most important part of hiswork. These poems are: _Wanderers Sturmlied_ (1885), _Aus Italien_(1886), _Macbeth_ (1887), _Don Juan_ (1888), _Tod und Verklärung_(1889), _Guntram_ (1892-93), _Till Eulenspiegel_ (1894), _Also sprachZarathustra_ (1895), _Don Quixote_ (1897), and _Heldenleben_(1898). [170]

[Footnote 170: This article was written in 1899. Since then the_Sinfonia Domestica_, has been produced, and will be noticed in theessay _French and German Music_. ]

I shall not say much about the four first works, where the mind andmanner of the artist is taking shape. The _Wanderers Sturmlied_ (thesong of a traveller during a storm, op. 14) is a vocal sextette with anorchestral accompaniment, whose subject is taken from a poem ofGoethe's. It was written before Strauss met Ritter, and its constructionis after the manner of Brahms, and shows a rather affected thought andstyle. _Aus Italien_ (op. 16) is an exuberant picture of impressions ofhis tour in Italy, of the ruins at Rome, the seashore at Sorrento, andthe life of the Italian people. _Macbeth_ (op. 23) gives us a ratherundistinguished series of musical interpretations of poetical subjects. _Don Juan_ (op. 20) is much finer, and translates Lenau's poem intomusic with bombastic vigour, showing us the hero who dreams of graspingall the joy of the world, and how he fails, and dies after he has lostfaith in everything. 

_Tod und Verklärung_ ("Death and Transfiguration, " op. 24[171]) marksconsiderable progress in Strauss's thought and style. It is still one ofthe most stirring of Strauss's works, and the one that is conceived withthe most perfect unity. It was inspired by a poem of Alexander Ritter's, and I will give you an idea of its subject. 

[Footnote 171: Composed in 1889, and performed for the first time atEisenach in 1890. ]

In a wretched room, lit only by a nightlight, a sick man lies in bed. Death draws near him in the midst of awe-inspiring silence. The unhappyman seems to wander in his mind at times, and to find comfort in pastmemories. His life passes before his eyes: his innocent childhood, hishappy youth, the struggles of middle age, and his efforts to attain thesplendid goal of his desires, which always eludes him. He had beenstriving all his life for this goal, and at last thought it was withinreach, when Death, in a voice of thunder, cries, suddenly, "Stop!" Andeven now in his agony he struggles desperately, being set uponrealising his dream; but the hand of Death is crushing life out of hisbody, and night is creeping on. Then resounds in the heavens the promiseof that happiness which he had vainly sought for on earth--Redemptionand Transfiguration. 

Richard Strauss's friends protested vigorously against this orthodoxending; and Seidl, [1] Jorisenne, [2] and Wilhelm Mauke[3] pretended thatthe subject was something loftier, that it was the eternal struggle ofthe soul against its lower self and its deliverance by means of art. Ishall not enter into that discussion, though I think that such a coldand commonplace symbolism is much less interesting than the strugglewith death, which one feels in every note of the composition. It is aclassical work, comparatively speaking; broad and majestic and almostlike Beethoven in style. The realism of the subject in thehallucinations of the dying man, the shiverings of fever, the throbbingof the veins, and the despairing agony, is transfigured by the purity ofthe form in which it is cast. It is realism after the manner of thesymphony in C minor, where Beethoven argues with Destiny. If allsuggestion of a programme is taken away, the symphony still remainsintelligible and impressive by its harmonious expression of feeling. 

[1] _Richard Strauss, eine Charakterskizze_, 1896, Prague. ]

[2] _R. Strauss, Essai critique et biologique_, 1898, Brussels. ]

[3] _Der Musikführer: Tod und Verklärung_, Frankfort. ]

Many German musicians think that Strauss has reached the highest pointof his work in _Tod und Verklärung_. But I am far from agreeing withthem, and believe myself that his art has developed enormously as theresult of it. It is true it is the summit of one period of his life, containing the essence of all that is best in it; but _Heldenleben_marks the second period, and is its corner-stone. How the force andfulness of his feeling has grown since that first period! But he hasnever re-found the delicate and melodious purity of soul and youthfulgrace of his earlier work, which still shines out in _Guntram_, and isthen effaced. 

 * * * * *

Strauss has directed Wagner's dramas at Weimar since 1889. Whilebreathing their atmosphere he turned his attention to the theatre, andwrote the libretto of his opera _Guntram_. Illness interrupted his work, and he was in Egypt when he took it up again. The music of the first actwas written between December, 1892, and February, 1893, while travellingbetween Cairo and Luxor; the second act was finished in June, 1893, inSicily; and the third act early in September, 1893, in Bavaria. Thereis, however, no trace of an oriental atmosphere in this music. We findrather the melodies of Italy, the reflection of a mellow light, and aresigned calm. I feel in it the languid mind of the convalescent, almostthe heart of a young girl whose tears are ready to flow, though she issmiling a little at her own sad dreams. It seems to me that Strauss musthave a secret affection for this work, which owes its inspiration tothe undefinable impressions of convalescence. His fever fell asleep init, and certain passages are full of the caressing touch of nature, andrecall Berlioz's _Les Troyens_. But too often the music is superficialand conventional, and the tyranny of Wagner makes itself felt--a rareenough occurrence in Strauss's other works. The poem is interesting;Strauss has put much of himself into it, and one is conscious of thecrisis that unsettled his broad-minded but often self-satisfied andinconsistent ideas. 

Strauss had been reading an historical study of an order of_Minnesänger_ and mystics, which was founded in Austria in the MiddleAges to fight against the corruption of art, and to save souls by thebeauty of song. They called themselves _Streiter der Liebe_ ("Warriorsof Love"). Strauss, who was imbued at that time with neo-Christian ideasand the influence of Wagner and Tolstoy, was carried away by thesubject, and took Guntram from the _Streiter der Liebe_, and made himhis hero. 

The action takes place in the thirteenth century, in Germany. The firstact gives us a glade near a little lake. The country people are inrevolt against the nobles, and have just been repulsed. Guntram and hismaster Friedhold distribute alms among them, and the band of defeatedmen then take flight into the woods. Left alone, Guntram begins to museon the delights of springtime and the innocent awakening of Nature. Butthe thought of the misery that its beauty hides weighs upon him. Hethinks of men's evil doing, of human suffering, and of civil war. Hegives thanks to Christ for having led him to this unhappy country, kisses the cross, and decides to go to the court of the tyrant who isthe cause of all the trouble, and make known to him the Divinerevelation. At that moment Freihild appears. She is the wife of DukeRobert, who is the cruellest of all the nobles, and she is horrified byall that is happening around her; life seems hateful to her, and shewishes to drown herself. But Guntram prevents her; and the pity that herbeauty and trouble had at first aroused changes unconsciously into lovewhen he recognises her as the beloved princess and sole benefactress ofthe unhappy people. He tells her that God has sent him to her for hersalvation. Then he goes to the castle, where he believes himself to besent on the double mission of saving the people--and Freihild. 

In the second act, the princes celebrate their victory in the Duke'scastle. After some pompous talk on the part of the official_Minnesänger_, Guntram is invited to sing. Discouraged beforehand by thewickedness of his audience, and feeling that he can sing to no purpose, he hesitates and is on the point of leaving them. But Freihild's sadnessholds him back, and for her sake he sings. His song is at first calm andmeasured, and expresses the melancholy that fills him in the midst of afeast which celebrates triumphant power. He then loses himself indreams, and sees the gentle figure of Peace moving among the company. Hedescribes her lovingly and with youthful tenderness, which approachesecstasy as he draws a picture of the ideal life of humanity made free. Then he paints War and Death, and the disorder and darkness that theyspread over the world. He addresses himself directly to the Prince; heshows him his duty, and how the love of his people would be hisrecompense; he threatens him with the hate of the unhappy who are drivento despair; and, finally, he urges the nobles to rebuild the towns, toliberate their prisoners, and to come to the aid of their subjects. Hissong is ended amid the profound emotion of his audience. Duke Robert, feeling the danger of these outspoken words, orders his men to seize thesinger; but the vassals side with Guntram. At this juncture news isbrought that the peasants have renewed the attack. Robert calls his mento arms, but Guntram, who feels that he will be supported by thosearound him, orders Robert's arrest. The Duke draws his sword, butGuntram kills him. Then a sudden change comes over Guntram's spirit, which is explained in the third act. In the scene that follows he speaksno word, his sword falls from his hand, and he lets his enemies againassume their authority over the crowd; he allows himself to be bound andtaken to prison, while the band of nobles noisily disperses to fightagainst the rebels. But Freihild is full of an unaffected and almostsavage joy at her deliverance by Guntram's sword. Love for Guntram fillsher heart, and her one desire is to save him. 

The third act takes place in the prison of the château; and it is asurprising, uncertain, and very curious act. It is not a logical resultof the action that has preceded it. One feels a sudden commotion in thepoet's ideas, a crisis of feeling which disturbed him even as he wrote, and a difficulty which he did not succeed in solving. The new lighttowards which he was beginning to move appears very clearly. Strauss wastoo advanced in the composition of his work to escape the neo-Christianrenouncement which had to finish the drama; he could only have avoidedthat by completely remodelling his characters. So Guntram rejectsFreihild's love. He sees he has fallen, even as the others, under thecurse of sin. He had preached charity to others when he himself was fullof egoism; he had killed Robert rather to satisfy his instinctive andanimal jealousy than to deliver the people from a tyrant. So herenounces his desires, and expiates the sin of being alive by retirementfrom the world. But the interest of the act does not lie in thisanticipated _dénouement_, which since _Parsifal_ has become rathercommon; it lies in another scene, which has evidently been inserted atthe last moment, and which is uncomfortably out of tune with the action, though in a singularly grand way. This scene gives us a dialogue betweenGuntram and his former companion, Friedhold. [172]

[Footnote 172: Some people have tried to see Alexander Ritter's thoughtsin Friedhold, as they have seen Strauss's thoughts in Guntram. ]

Friedhold had initiated him in former days, and he now comes toreproach him for his crime, and to bring him before the Order, who willjudge him. In the original version of the poem Guntram complies, andsacrifices his passion to his vow. But while Strauss had been travellingin the East he had conceived a sudden horror for this Christianannihilation of will, and Guntram revolts along with him, and refuses tosubmit to the rules of his Order. He breaks his lute--a symbol of falsehope in the redemption of humanity through faith--and rouses himselffrom the glorious dreams in which he used to believe, for he sees theyare shadows that are scattered by the light of real life. He does notabjure his former vows; but he is not the same man he was when he madethem. While his experience was immature he was able to believe that aman ought to submit himself to rules, and that life should be governedby laws. A single hour has enlightened him. Now he is free andalone--alone with his spirit. "I alone can lessen my suffering; I alonecan expiate my crime. Through myself alone God speaks to me; to me aloneGod speaks. _Ewig einsam_. " It is the proud awakening of individualism, the powerful pessimism of the Super-man. Such an expression of feelinggives the character of action to renouncement and even to negationitself, for it is a strong affirmation of the will. 

I have dwelt rather at length on this drama on account of the real valueof its thought and, above all, on account of what one may call itsautobiographical interest. It was at this time that Strauss's mind beganto take more definite form. His further experience will develop thatform still more, but without making any important change in it. 

_Guntram_ was the cause of bitter disappointment to its author. He didnot succeed in getting it produced at Munich, for the orchestra andsingers declared that the music could not be performed. It is even saidthat they got an eminent critic to draw up a formal document, which theysent to Strauss, certifying that _Guntram_ was not meant to be sung. Thechief difficulty was the length of the principal part, which took up byitself, in its musings and discourses, the equivalent of an act and ahalf. Some of its monologues, like the song in the second act, last halfan hour on end. Nevertheless, _Guntram_ was performed at Weimar on 16May, 1894. A little while afterwards Strauss married the singer whoplayed Freihild, Pauline de Ahna, who had also created Elizabeth in_Tannhäuser_ at Bayreuth, and who has since devoted herself to theinterpretation of her husband's _Lieder_. 

 * * * * *

But the rancour of his failure at the theatre still remained withStrauss, and he turned his attention again to the symphonic poem, inwhich he showed more and more marked dramatic tendencies, and a soulwhich grew daily prouder and more scornful. You should hear him speak incold disdain of the theatre-going public--"that collection of bankersand tradespeople and miserable seekers after pleasure"--to know the sorethat this triumphant artist hides. For not only was the theatre longclosed to him, but, by an additional irony, he was obliged to conductmusical rubbish at the opera in Berlin, on account of the poor taste inmusic--really of Royal origin--that prevailed there. 

The first great symphony of this new period was _Till Eulenspiegel'slustige Streiche, nach alter Schelmenweise, in Rondeauform_ ("TillEulenspiegel's Merry Pranks, according to an old legend, in rondeauform"), op. 28. [173] Here his disdain is as yet only expressed by wittybantering, which scoffs at the world's conventions. This figure of Till, this devil of a joker, the legendary hero of Germany and Flanders, islittle known with us in France. And so Strauss's music loses much of itspoint, for it claims to recall a series of adventures which we knownothing about--Till crossing the market place and smacking his whip atthe good women there; Till in priestly attire delivering a homelysermon; Till making love to a young woman who rebuffs him; Till making afool of the pedants; Till tried and hung. Strauss's liking to present, by musical pictures, sometimes a character, sometimes a dialogue, or asituation, or a landscape, or an idea--that is to say, the most volatileand varied impressions of his capricious spirit--is very marked here. Itis true that he falls back on several popular subjects, whose meaningwould be very easily grasped in Germany; and that he develops them, notquite in the strict form of a rondeau, as he pretends, but still with acertain method, so that apart from a few frolics, which areunintelligible without a programme, the whole has real musical unity. This symphony, which is a great favourite in Germany, seems to me lessoriginal than some of his other compositions. It sounds rather like arefined piece of Mendelssohn's, with curious harmonies and verycomplicated instrumentation. 

[Footnote 173: Composed in 1894-95, and played for the first time atCologne in 1895. ]

There is much more grandeur and originality in his _Also sprachZarathustra, Tondichtung frei, nach Nietzsche_ ("Thus spake Zarathustra, a free Tone-poem, after Nietzsche"), op. 30. [174] Its sentiments aremore broadly human, and the programme that Strauss has followed neverloses itself in picturesque or anecdotic details, but is planned onexpressive and noble lines. Strauss protests his own liberty in the faceof Nietzsche's. He wishes to represent the different stages ofdevelopment that a free spirit passes through in order to arrive at thatof Super-man. These ideas are purely personal, and are not part of somesystem of philosophy. The sub-titles of the work are: _Von denHinterweltern_ ("Of Religious Ideas"), _Von der grossen Sehnsucht_ ("OfSupreme Aspiration"), _Von den Freuden und Leidenschaften_ ("Of Joys andPassions"), _Das Grablied_ ("The Grave Song"), _Von der Wissenschaft_("Of Knowledge"), _Der Genesende_ ("The Convalescent"--the souldelivered of its desires), _Das Tanzlied_ ("Dancing Song"), _Nachtlied_("Night Song"). We are shown a man who, worn out by trying to solve theriddle of the universe, seeks refuge in religion. Then he revoltsagainst ascetic ideas, and gives way madly to his passions. But he isquickly sated and disgusted and, weary to death, he tries science, butrejects it again, and succeeds in ridding himself of the uneasiness itsknowledge brings by laughter--the master of the universe--and the merrydance, that dance of the universe where all the human sentiments enterhand-in-hand--religious beliefs, unsatisfied desires, passions, disgust, and joy. "Lift up your hearts on high, my brothers! Higherstill! And mind you don't forget your legs! I have canonised laughter. You super-men, learn to laugh!"[175] And the dance dies away and is lostin ethereal regions, and Zarathustra is lost to sight while dancing indistant worlds. But if he has solved the riddle of the universe forhimself, he has not solved it for other men; and so, in contrast to theconfident knowledge which fills the music, we get the sad note ofinterrogation at the end. 

[Footnote 174: Composed in 1895-96, and performed for the first time atFrankfort-On-Main in November, 1896. ]

[Footnote 175: Nietzsche. ]

There are few subjects that offer richer material for musicalexpression. Strauss has treated it with power and dexterity; he haspreserved unity in this chaos of passions, by contrasting the_Sehnsucht_ of man with the impassive strength of Nature. As for theboldness of his conceptions, I need hardly remind those who heard thepoem at the Cirque d'été of the intricate "Fugue of Knowledge, " thetrills of the wood wind and the trumpets that voice Zarathustra's laugh, the dance of the universe, and the audacity of the conclusion which, inthe key of B major, finishes up with a note of interrogation, in Cnatural, repeated three times. 

I am far from thinking that the symphony is without a fault. The themesare of unequal value: some are quite commonplace; and, in a general way, the working up of the composition is superior to its underlyingthought. I shall come back later on to certain faults in Strauss'smusic; here I only want to consider the overflowing life and feverishjoy that set these worlds spinning. 

_Zarathustra_ shows the progress of scornful individualism inStrauss--"the spirit that hates the dogs of the populace and all thatabortive and gloomy breed; the spirit of wild laughter that dances likea tempest as gaily on marshes and sadness as it does in fields. "[176]That spirit laughs at itself and at its idealism in the _Don Quixote_ of1897, _fantastische Variationen uber ein Thema ritterlichen Charakters_("Don Quixote, fantastic variations on a theme of knightly character"), op. 35; and that symphony marks, I think, the extreme point to whichprogramme music may be carried. In no other work does Strauss givebetter proof of his prodigious cleverness, intelligence, and wit; and Isay sincerely that there is not a work where so much force is expendedwith so great a loss for the sake of a game and a musical joke whichlasts forty-five minutes, and has given the author, the executants, andthe public a good deal of tiring work. These symphonic poems are mostdifficult to play on account of the complexity, the independence, andthe fantastic caprices of the different parts. Judge for yourself whatthe author expects to get out of the music by these few extracts fromthe programme:--

[Footnote 176: Nietzsche, _Zarathustra_. ]

The introduction represents Don Quixote buried in books of chivalrousromance; and we have to see in the music, as we do in little Flemish andDutch pictures, not only Don Quixote's features, but the words of thebooks he reads. Sometimes it is the story of a knight who is righting agiant, sometimes the adventures of a knight-errant who has dedicatedhimself to the services of a lady, sometimes it is a nobleman who hasgiven his life in fulfilment of a vow to atone for his sins. DonQuixote's mind becomes confused (and our own with it) over all thesestories; he is quite distracted. He leaves home in company with hissquire. The two figures are drawn with great spirit; the one is an oldSpaniard, stiff, languishing, distrustful, a bit of a poet, ratherundecided in his opinions but obstinate when his mind is once made up;the other is a fat, jovial peasant, a cunning fellow, given to repeatinghimself in a waggish way and quoting droll proverbs--translated in themusic by short-winded phrases that always return to the point theystarted from. The adventures begin. Here are the windmills (trills fromthe violins and wood wind), and the bleating army of the grand emperor, Alifanfaron (tremolos from the wood wind); and here, in the thirdvariation, is a dialogue between the knight and his squire, from whichwe are to guess that Sancho questions his master on the advantages of achivalrous life, for they seem to him doubtful. Don Quixote talks to himof glory and honour; but Sancho has no thought for it. In reply to thesegrand words he urges the superiority of sure profits, fat meals, andsounding money. Then the adventures begin again. The two companions flythrough the air on wooden horses; and the illusion of this giddy voyageis given by chromatic passages on the flutes, harps, kettledrums, and a"windmachine, " while "the tremolo of the double basses on the key-noteshows that the horses have never left the earth. "[177]

But I must stop. I have said enough to show the fun the author isindulging in. When one hears the work one cannot help admiring thecomposer's technical knowledge, skill in orchestration, and sense ofhumour. And one is all the more surprised that he confines himself tothe illustration of texts[178] when he is so capable of creating comicand dramatic matter without it. Although _Don Quixote_ is a marvel ofskill and a very wonderful work, in which Strauss has developed asuppler and richer style, it marks, to my mind, a progress in histechnique and a backward step in his mind, for he seems to have adoptedthe decadent conceptions of an art suited to playthings and trinkets toplease a frivolous and affected society. 

[Footnote 177: Arthur Hahn, _Der Musikführer: Don Quixote_, Frankfort. ]

[Footnote 178: At the head of each variation Strauss has marked on thescore the chapter of "Don Quixote" that he is interpreting. ]

In _Heldenleben_ ("The Life of a Hero"), op. 40, [179] he recovershimself, and with a stroke of his wings reaches the summits. Here thereis no foreign text for the music to study or illustrate or transcribe. Instead, there is lofty passion and an heroic will gradually developingitself and breaking down all obstacles. Without doubt Strauss had aprogramme in his mind, but he said to me himself: "You have no need toread it. It is enough to know that the hero is there fighting againsthis enemies. " I do not know how far that is true, or if parts of thesymphony would not be rather obscure to anyone who followed it withoutthe text; but this speech seems to prove that he has understood thedangers of the literary symphony, and that he is striving for puremusic. 

[Footnote 179: Finished in December, 1898. Performed for the first timeat Frankfort-On-Main on 3 March, 1899. Published by Leuckart, Leipzig. ]

_Heldenleben_ is divided into six chapters: The Hero, The Hero'sAdversaries, The Hero's Companion, The Field of Battle, The PeacefulLabours of the Hero, The Hero's Retirement from the World, and theAchievement of His Ideal. It is an extraordinary work, drunken withheroism, colossal, half barbaric, trivial, and sublime. An Homeric herostruggles among the sneers of a stupid crowd, a herd of brawling andhobbling ninnies. A violin solo, in a sort of concerto, describes theseductions, the coquetry, and the degraded wickedness of woman. Thenstrident trumpet-blasts sound the attack; and it is beyond me to give anidea of the terrible charge of cavalry that follows, which makes theearth tremble and our hearts leap; nor can I describe how an irondetermination leads to the storming of towns, and all the tumultuous dinand uproar of battle--the most splendid battle that has ever beenpainted in music. At its first performance in Germany I saw peopletremble as they listened to it, and some rose up suddenly and madeviolent gestures quite unconsciously. I myself had a strange feeling ofgiddiness, as if an ocean had been upheaved, and I thought that for thefirst time for thirty years Germany had found a poet of Victory. 

_Heldenleben_ would be in every way one of the masterpieces of musicalcomposition if a literary error had not suddenly cut short the soaringflight of its most impassioned pages, at the supreme point of interestin the movement, in order to follow the programme; though, besides this, a certain coldness, perhaps weariness, creeps in towards the end. Thevictorious hero perceives that he has conquered in vain: the basenessand stupidity of men have remained unaltered. He stifles his anger, andscornfully accepts the situation. Then he seeks refuge in the peace ofNature. The creative force within him flows out in imaginative works;and here Richard Strauss, with a daring warranted only by his genius, represents these works by reminiscences of his own compositions, and_Don Juan, Macbeth, Tod und Verklärung, Till, Zarathustra, Don Quixote, Guntram_, and even his _Lieder_, associate themselves with the herowhose story he is telling. At times a storm will remind this hero of hiscombats; but he also remembers his moments of love and happiness, andhis soul is quieted. Then the music unfolds itself serenely, and riseswith calm strength to the closing chord of triumph, which is placed likea crown of glory on the hero's head. 

There is no doubt that Beethoven's ideas have often inspired, stimulated, and guided Strauss's own ideas. One feels an indescribablereflection of the first _Heroic_ and of the _Ode to Joy_ in the key ofthe first part (E flat); and the last part recalls, even more forcibly, certain of Beethoven's _Lieder_. But the heroes of the two composers arevery different: Beethoven's hero is more classical and more rebellious;and Strauss's hero is more concerned with the exterior world and hisenemies, his conquests are achieved with greater difficulty, and histriumph is wilder in consequence. If that good Oulibicheff pretends tosee the burning of Moscow in a discord in the first _Heroic_, what wouldhe find here? What scenes of burning towns, what battlefields! Besidesthat there is cutting scorn and a mischievous laughter in _Heldenleben_that is never heard in Beethoven. There is, in fact, little kindness inStrauss's work; it is the work of a disdainful hero. 

 * * * * *

In considering Strauss's music as a whole, one is at first struck by thediversity of his style. The North and the South mingle; and in hismelodies one feels the attraction of the sun. Something Italian hadcrept into _Tristan_; but how much more of Italy there is in the work ofthis disciple of Nietzsche. The phrases are often Italian and theirharmonies ultra-Germanic. Perhaps one of the greatest charms ofStrauss's art is that we are able to watch the rent in the dark cloudsof German polyphony, and see shining through it the smiling line of anItalian coast and the gay dancers on its shore. This is not merely avague analogy. It would be easy, if idle, to notice unmistakablereminiscences of France and Italy even in Strauss's most advanced works, such as _Zarathustra_ and _Heldenleben_. Mendelssohn, Gounod, Wagner, Rossini, and Mascagni elbow one another strangely. But these disparateelements have a softer outline when the work is taken as a whole, forthey have been absorbed and controlled by the composer's imagination. 

His orchestra is not less composite. It is not a compact and serriedmass like Wagner's Macedonian phalanxes; it is parcelled out and asdivided as possible. Each part aims at independence and works as itthinks best, without apparently troubling about the other parts. Sometimes it seems, as it did when reading Berlioz, that the executionmust result in incoherence, and weaken the effect. But somehow theresult is very satisfying. "Now doesn't that sound well?" said Straussto me with a smile, just after he had finished conducting_Heldenleben_. [180]

[Footnote 180: The composition of the orchestra in Strauss's later worksis as follows: In _Zarathustra_: one piccolo, three flutes, three oboes, one English horn, one clarinet in E flat, two clarinets in B, onebass-clarinet in B, three bassoons, one double-bassoon, six horns in F, four trumpets in C, three trombones, three bass-tuba, kettledrums, bigdrum, cymbals, triangle, chime of bells, bell in E, organ, two harps, and strings. In _Heldenleben_: eight horns instead of six, five trumpetsinstead of four (two in E flat, three in B); and, in addition, militarydrums. ]

But it is especially in Strauss's subjects that caprice and a disorderedimagination, the enemy of all reason, seem to reign. We have seen thatthese poems try to express in turn, or even simultaneously, literarytexts, pictures, anecdotes, philosophical ideas, and the personalsentiments of the composer. What unity is there in the adventures of DonQuixote or Till Eulenspiegel? And yet unity is there, not in thesubjects, but in the mind that deals with them. And these descriptivesymphonies with their very diffuse literary life are vindicated by theirmusical life, which is much more logical and concentrated. The capricesof the poet are held in rein by the musician. The whimsical Tilldisports himself "after the old form of rondeau, " and the folly of DonQuixote is told in "ten variations on a chivalrous theme, with anintroduction and finale. " In this way, Strauss's art, one of the mostliterary and descriptive in existence, is strongly distinguished fromothers of the same kind by the solidarity of its musical fabric, inwhich one feels the true musician--a musician brought up on the greatmasters, and a classic in spite of everything. 

And so throughout that music a strong unity is felt among the unruly andoften incongruous elements. It is the reflection, so it seems to me, ofthe soul of the composer. Its unity is not a matter of what he feels, but a matter of what he wishes. His emotion is much less interesting tohim than his will, and it is less intense, and often quite devoid of anypersonal character. His restlessness seems to come from Schumann, hisreligious feeling from Mendelssohn, his voluptuousness from Gounod orthe Italian masters, his passion from Wagner. [181] But his will isheroic, dominating, eager, and powerful to a sublime degree. And that iswhy Richard Strauss is noble and, at present, quite unique. One feels inhim a force that has dominion over men. 

[Footnote 181: In _Guntram_ one could even believe that he had made uphis mind to use a phrase in _Tristan_, as if he could not find anythingbetter to express passionate desire. ]

 * * * * *

It is through this heroic side that he may be considered as an inheritorof some of Beethoven's and Wagner's thought. It is this heroic sidewhich makes him a poet--one of the greatest perhaps in modern Germany, who sees herself reflected in him and in his hero. Let us consider thishero. 

He is an idealist with unbounded faith in the power of the mind and theliberating virtue of art. This idealism is at first religious, as in_Tod und Verklärung_, and tender and compassionate as a woman, and fullof youthful illusions, as in _Guntram_. Then it becomes vexed andindignant with the baseness of the world and the difficulties itencounters. Its scorn increases, and becomes sarcastic _(TillEulenspiegel)_; it is exasperated with years of conflict, and, inincreasing bitterness, develops into a contemptuous heroism. HowStrauss's laugh whips and stings us in _Zarathustra_! How his willbruises and cuts us in _Heldenleben_! Now that he has proved his powerby victory, his pride knows no limit; he is elated and is unable to seethat his lofty visions have become realities. But the people whosespirit he reflects see it. There are germs of morbidity in Germanyto-day, a frenzy of pride, a belief in self, and a scorn for others thatrecalls France in the seventeenth century. "_Dem Deutschen gehört dieWelt_" ("Germany possesses the world") calmly say the prints displayedin the shop windows in Berlin. But when one arrives at this point themind becomes delirious. All genius is raving mad if it comes to that;but Beethoven's madness concentrated itself in himself, and imaginedthings for his own enjoyment. The genius of many contemporary Germanartists is an aggressive thing, and is characterised by its destructiveantagonism. The idealist who "possesses the world" is liable todizziness. He was made to rule over an interior world. The splendour ofthe exterior images that he is called upon to govern dazzles him; and, like Caesar, he goes astray. Germany had hardly attained the position ofempire of the world when she found Nietzsche's voice and that of thedeluded artists of the _Deutsches Theater_ and the _Secession_. Nowthere is the grandiose music of Richard Strauss. 

What is all this fury leading to? What does this heroism aspire to? Thisforce of will, bitter and strained, grows faint when it has reached itsgoal, or even before that. It does not know what to do with its victory. It disdains it, does not believe in it, or grows tired of it. [182]

[Footnote 182: "The German spirit, which but a little while back had thewill to dominate Europe, the force to govern Europe, has finally made upits mind to abandon it. "--Nietzsche. ]

Like Michelangelo's _Victory_, it has set its knee on the captive'sback, and seems ready to despatch him. But suddenly it stops, hesitates, and looks about with uncertain eyes, and its expression is one oflanguid disgust, as though weariness had seized it. 

And this is how the work of Richard Strauss appears to me up to thepresent. Guntram kills Duke Robert, and immediately lets fall his sword. The frenzied laugh of Zarathustra ends in an avowal of discouragedimpotence. The delirious passion of Don Juan dies away in nothingness. Don Quixote when dying forswears his illusions. Even the Hero himselfadmits the futility of his work, and seeks oblivion in an indifferentNature. Nietzsche, speaking of the artists of our time, laughs at "thoseTantaluses of the will, rebels and enemies of laws, who come, broken inspirit, and fall at the foot of the cross of Christ. " Whether it is forthe sake of the Cross or Nothingness, these heroes renounce theirvictories in disgust and despair, or with a resignation that is sadderstill. It was not thus that Beethoven overcame his sorrows. Sad adagiosmake their lament in the middle of his symphonies, but a note of joy andtriumph is always sounded at the end. His work is the triumph of aconquered hero; that of Strauss is the defeat of a conquering hero. Thisirresoluteness of the will can be still more clearly seen incontemporary German literature, and in particular in the author of _Dieversunkene Glocke_. But it is more striking in Strauss, because he ismore heroic. And so we get all this display of superhuman will, and theend is only "My desire is gone!"

In this lies the undying worm of German thought--I am speaking of thethought of the choice few who enlighten the present and anticipate thefuture. I see an heroic people, intoxicated by its triumphs, by itsgreat riches, by its numbers, by its force, which clasps the world inits great arms and subjugates it, and then stops, fatigued by itsconquest, and asks: "Why have I conquered?"

HUGO WOLF

The more one learns of the history of great artists, the more one isstruck by the immense amount of sadness their lives enclose. Not onlyare they subjected to the trials and disappointments of ordinarylife--which affect them more cruelly through their greatersensitiveness--but their surroundings are like a desert, because theyare twenty, thirty, fifty, or even hundreds of years in advance of theircontemporaries; and they are often condemned to despairing efforts, notto conquer the world, but to live. 

These highly-strung natures are rarely able to keep up this incessantstruggle for very long; and the finest genius may have to reckon withillness and misery and even premature death. And yet there were peoplelike Mozart and Schumann and Weber who were happy in spite ofeverything, because they had been able to keep their soul's health andthe joy of creation until the end; and though their bodies were worn outwith fatigue and privation, a light was kept burning which sent its raysfar into the darkness of their night. There are worse destinies; andBeethoven, though he was poor, shut up within himself, and deceived inhis affections, was far from being the most unhappy of men. In his case, he possessed nothing but himself; but he possessed himself truly, andreigned over the world that was within him; and no other empire couldever be compared with that of his vast imagination, which stretched likea great expanse of sky, where tempests raged. Until his last day the oldPrometheus in him, though fettered by a miserable body, preserved hisiron force unbroken. When dying during a storm, his last gesture was oneof revolt; and in his agony he raised himself on his bed and shook hisfist at the sky. And so he fell, struck down by a single blow in thethick of the fight. 

But what shall be said of those who die little by little, who outlivethemselves, and watch the slow decay of their souls?

Such was the fate of Hugo Wolf, whose tragic destiny has assured him aplace apart in the hell of great musicians. [183]

[Footnote 183: A large number of works on Hugo Wolf have been publishedin Germany since his death. The chief is the great biography of HerrErnst Decsey--_Hugo Wolf_ (Berlin, 1903-4). I have found this book ofgreat service; it is a work full of knowledge and sympathy. I have alsoconsulted Herr Paul Müller's excellent little pamphlet, _Hugo Wolf(Moderne essays_, Berlin, 1904), and the collections of Wolf's letters, in particular his letters to Oskar Grohe, Emil Kaufmann, and HugoFaisst. ]

 * * * * *

He was born at Windischgratz in Styria, 13 March, 1860. He was thefourth son of a currier--a currier-musician, like old Veit Bach, thebaker-musician, and Haydn's father, the wheelwright-musician. PhilippWolf played the violin, the guitar, and the piano, and used to havelittle quintet parties at his house, in which he played the firstviolin, Hugo the second violin, Hugo's brother the violoncello, an unclethe horn, and a friend the tenor violin. The musical taste of thecountry was not properly German. Wolf was a Catholic; and his taste wasnot formed, like that of most German musicians, by books of chorales. Besides that, in Styria they were fond of playing the old Italian operasof Rossini, Bellini, and Donizetti. Later on, Wolf used to like to thinkthat he had a few drops of Latin blood in his veins; and all his life hehad a predilection for the great French musicians. 

His term of apprenticeship was not marked by anything brilliant. He wentfrom one school to another without being kept long anywhere. And yet hewas not a worthless lad; but he was always very reserved, little caringto be intimate with others, and passionately devoted to music. Hisfather naturally did not want him to take up music as a profession; andhe had the same struggles that Berlioz had. Finally he succeeded ingetting permission from his family to go to Vienna, and he entered theConservatoire there in 1875. But he was not any the happier for it, andat the end of two years he was sent away for being unruly. 

What was to be done? His family was ruined, for a fire had demolishedtheir little possessions. He felt the silent reproaches of his fatheralready weighing upon him--for he loved his father dearly, andremembered the sacrifices he had made for him. He did not wish to returnto his own province; indeed he could not return--that would have beendeath. It was necessary that this boy of seventeen should find somemeans of earning a livelihood and be able to instruct himself at thesame time. After his expulsion from the Conservatoire he attended noother school; he taught himself. And he taught himself wonderfully; butat what a cost! The suffering he went through from that time until hewas thirty, the enormous amount of energy he had to expend in order tolive and cultivate the fine spirit of poetry that was within him--allthis effort and toil was, without doubt, the cause of his unhappy death. He had a burning thirst for knowledge and a fever for work which madehim sometimes forget the necessity for eating and drinking. 

He had a great admiration for Goethe, and was infatuated by Heinrich vonKleist, whom he rather resembles both in his gifts and in his life; hewas an enthusiast about Grillparzer and Hebbel at a time when they werebut little appreciated; and he was one of the first Germans to discoverthe worth of Mörike, whom, later on, he made popular in Germany. Besidesthis, he read English and French writers. He liked Rabelais, and wasvery partial to Claude Tillier, the French novelist of the provinces, whose _Oncle Benjamin_ has given pleasure to so many German provincialfamilies, by bringing before them, as Wolf said, the vision of their ownlittle world, and helping them by his own jovial good humour to beartheir troubles with a smiling face. And so little Wolf, with hardlyenough to eat, found the means of learning both French and English, inorder better to appreciate the thoughts of foreign artists. 

In music he learned a great deal from his friend Schalk, [184] aprofessor at the Vienna Conservatoire; but, like Berlioz, he got most ofhis education from the libraries, and spent months in reading the scoresof the great masters. Not having a piano, he used to carry Beethoven'ssonatas to the Prater Park in Vienna and study them on a bench in theopen air. He soaked himself in the classics--in Bach and Beethoven, andthe German masters of the _Lied_--Schubert and Schumann. He was one ofthe young Germans who was passionately fond of Berlioz; and it is due toWolf that France was afterwards honoured in the possession of this greatartist, whom French critics, whether of the school of Meyerbeer, Wagner, Franck, or Debussy, have never understood. He was also early a friend ofold Anton Bruckner, whose music we do not know in France, neither hiseight symphonies, nor his _Te Deum_, nor his masses, nor his cantatas, nor anything else of his fertile work. Bruckner had a sweet and modestcharacter, and an endearing, if rather childish, personality. He wasrather crushed all his life by the Brahms party; but, like Franck inFrance, he gathered round him new and original talent to fight theacademic art of his time. 

[Footnote 184: Joseph Schalk was one of the founders of the_Wagner-Verein_ at Vienna, and devoted his life to propagating the cultof Bruckner (who called him his "_Herr Generalissimus_ "), and tofighting for Wolf. ]

But of all these influences, the strongest was that of Wagner. Wagnercame to Vienna in 1875 to conduct _Tannhäuser_ and _Lohengrin_. Therewas then among the younger people a fever of enthusiasm similar to thatwhich _Werther_ had caused a century before. Wolf saw Wagner. He tellsus about it in his letters to his parents. I will quote his own words, and though they make one smile, one loves the impulsive devotion of hisyouth; and they make one feel, too, that a man who inspires such anaffection, and who can do so much good by a little sympathy, is to blamewhen he does not befriend others--above all if he has suffered, likeWagner, from loneliness and the want of a helping hand. You mustremember that this letter was written by a boy of fifteen. 

 "I have been to--guess whom?. .. To the master, Richard Wagner! Now I will tell you all about it, just as it happened. I will copy the words down exactly as I wrote them in my note-book. 

 "On Thursday, 9 December, at half-past ten, I saw Richard Wagner for the second time at the Hotel Imperial, where I stayed for half an hour on the staircase, awaiting his arrival (I knew that on that day he would conduct the last rehearsal of his _Lohengrin_). At last the master came down from the second floor, and I bowed to him very respectfully while he was yet some distance from me. He thanked me in a very friendly way. As he neared the door I sprang forward and opened it for him, upon which he looked fixedly at me for a few seconds, and then went on his way to the rehearsal at the Opera. I ran as fast as I could, and arrived at the Opera sooner than Richard Wagner did in his cab. I bowed to him again, and I wanted to open the door of his cab for him; but as I could not get it open, the coachman jumped down from his seat and did it for me. Wagner said something to the coachman--I think it was about me. I wanted to follow him into the theatre, but they would not let me pass. 

 "I often used to wait for him at the Hotel Imperial; and on this occasion I made the acquaintance of the manager of the hotel, who promised that he would interest himself on my behalf. Who was more delighted than I when he told me that on the following Saturday afternoon, 11 December, I was to come and find him, so that he could introduce me to Mme. Cosima's maid and Richard Wagner's valet! I arrived at the appointed hour. The visit to the lady's maid was very short. I was advised to come the following day, Sunday, 12 December, at two o'clock. I arrived at the right hour, but found the maid and the valet and the manager still at table. .. . Then I went with the maid to the master's rooms, where I waited for about a quarter of an hour until he came. At last Wagner appeared in company with Cosima and Goldmark. I bowed to Cosima very respectfully, but she evidently did not think it worth while to honour me with a single glance. Wagner was going into his room without paying any attention to me, when the maid said to him in a beseeching voice: 'Ah, Herr Wagner, it is a young musician who wishes to speak to you; he has been waiting for you a long time. '

 "He then came out of his room, looked at me, and said: 'I have seen you before, I think. You are. .. . '

 "Probably he wanted to say, 'You are a fool. '

 "He went in front of me and opened the door of the reception-room, which was furnished in a truly royal style. In the middle of the room was a couch covered in velvet and silk. Wagner himself was wrapped in a long velvet mantle bordered with fur. 

 "When I was inside the room he asked me what I wanted. "

Here Hugo Wolf, to excite the curiosity of his parents, broke off hisstory and put "To be continued in my next. " In his next letter hecontinues:

 "I said to him: 'Highly honoured master, for a long time I have wanted to hear an opinion on my compositions, and it would be. .. . '

 "Here the master interrupted me and said: 'My dear child, I cannot give you an opinion of your compositions; I have far too little time; I can't even get my own letters written. I understand nothing at all about music _(Ich verstehe gar nichts von der Musik_). '

 "I asked the master whether I should ever be able really to do anything, and he said to me: 'When I was your age and composing music, no one could tell me then whether I should ever do anything great. You could at most play me your compositions on the piano; but I have no time to hear them. When you are older, and when you have composed bigger works, and if by chance I return to Vienna, you shall show me what you have done. But that is no use now; I cannot give you an opinion of them yet. '

 "When I told the master that I took the classics as models, he said: 'Good, good. One can't be original at first. ' And he laughed, and then said, 'I wish you, dear friend, much happiness in your career. Go on working steadily, and if I come back to Vienna, show me your compositions. '

 "Upon that I left the master, profoundly moved and impressed. "

Wolf and Wagner did not see each other again. But Wolf foughtunceasingly on Wagner's behalf. He went several times to Bayreuth, though he had no personal intercourse with the Wagner family; but he metLiszt, who, with his usual goodness, wrote him a kind letter about acomposition that he had sent him, and showed him what alterations tomake in it. 

Mottl and the composer, Adalbert de Goldschmidt, were the first friendsto aid him in his years of misery, by finding him some music pupils. Hetaught music to little children of seven and eight years old; but he wasa poor teacher, and found giving lessons was a martyrdom. The money heearned hardly served to feed him, and he only ate once a day--Heavenknows how. To comfort himself he read Hebbel's Life; and for a time hethought of going to America. In 1881 Goldschmidt got him the post ofsecond _Kapellmeister_ at the Salzburg theatre. It was his business torehearse the choruses for the operettas of Strauss and Millöcker. He didhis work conscientiously, but in deadly weariness; and he lacked thenecessary power of making his authority felt. He did not stay long inthis post, and came back to Vienna. 

Since 1875 he had been writing music: _Lieder_, sonatas, symphonies, quartets, etc. , and already his _Lieder_ held the most important place. He also composed in 1883 a symphonic poem on the _Penthesilea_ of hisfriend Kleist. 

In 1884 he succeeded in getting a post as musical critic. But on what apaper! It was the _Salonblatt_--a mundane journal filled with articleson sport and fashion news. One would have said that this littlebarbarian was put there for a wager. His articles from 1884 to 1887 arefull of life and humour. He upholds the great classic masters in them:Gluck, Mozart, Beethoven, and--Wagner; he defends Berlioz; he scourgesthe modern Italians, whose success at Vienna was simply scandalous; hebreaks lances for Bruckner, and begins a bold campaign against Brahms. It was not that he disliked or had any prejudice against Brahms; he tooka delight in some of his works, especially his chamber music, but hefound fault with his symphonies and was shocked by the carelessness ofthe declamation in his _Lieder_ and, in general, could not bear his wantof originality and power, and found him lacking in joy and fulness oflife. Above all, he struck at him as being the head of a party that wasspitefully opposed to Wagner and Bruckner and all innovators. For allthat was retrograde in music in Vienna, and all that was the enemy ofliberty and progress in art and criticism, was giving Brahms itsdetestable support by gathering itself about him and spreading his fameabroad; and though Brahms was really far above his party as an artistand a man, he had not the courage to break away from it. 

Brahms read Wolf's articles, but his attacks did not seem to stir hisapathy. The "Brahmines, " however, never forgave Wolf. One of hisbitterest enemies was Hans von Bülow, who found anti-Brahmism "theblasphemy against the Holy Ghost--which shall not be forgiven. "[185]Some years later, when Wolf succeeded in getting his own compositionsplayed, he had to submit to criticisms like that of Max Kalbeck, one ofthe leaders of "Brahmism" at Vienna:

 "Herr Wolf has lately, as a reporter, raised an irresistible laugh in musical circles. So someone suggested he had better devote himself to composition. The last products of his muse show that this well-meant advice was bad. He ought to go back to reporting. "

[Footnote 185: Letter of H. Von Bülow to Detlev von Liliencron. ]

An orchestral society in Vienna gave Wolf's _Penthesilea_ a trialreading; and it was rehearsed, in disregard of all good taste, amidshouts of laughter. When it was finished, the conductor said:"Gentlemen, I ask your pardon for having allowed this piece to be playedto the end; but I wanted to know what manner of man it is that dares towrite such things about the master, Brahms. "

Wolf got a little respite from his miseries by going to stay a few weeksin his own country with his brother-in-law, Strasser, an inspector oftaxes. [186] He took with him his books, his poets, and began to set themto music. 

[Footnote 186: Wolf's letters to Strasser are of great value in givingus an insight into his artist's eager and unhappy soul. ]

 * * * * *

He was now twenty-seven years old, and had as yet published nothing. Theyears of 1887 and 1888 were the most critical ones of his life. In 1887he lost his father whom he loved so much, and that loss, like so many ofhis other misfortunes, gave fresh impulse to his energies. The sameyear, a generous friend called Eckstein published his first collectionof _Lieder_. Wolf up to that time had been smothered, but thispublication stirred the life in him, and was the means of unloosing hisgenius. Settled at Perchtoldsdorf, near Vienna, in February, 1888, inabsolute peace, he wrote in three months fifty-three _Lieder_ to thewords of Eduard Mörike, the pastor-poet of Swabia, who died in 1875, andwho, misunderstood and laughed at during his lifetime, is now coveredwith honour, and universally popular in Germany. Wolf composed hissongs in a state of exalted joy and almost fright at the suddendiscovery of his creative power. 

In a letter to Dr. Heinrich Werner, he says:

 "It is now seven o'clock in the evening, and I am so happy--oh, happier than the happiest of kings. Another new _Lied_! If you could hear what is going on in my heart!. .. The devil would carry you away with pleasure!. .. 

 "Another two new _Lieder_! There is one that sounds so horribly strange that it frightens me. There is nothing like it in existence. Heaven help the unfortunate people who will one day hear it!. .. 

 "If you could only hear the last _Lied_ I have just composed you would only have one desire left--to die. .. . Your happy, happy Wolf. "

He had hardly finished the _Mörike-Lieder_ when he began a series of_Lieder_ on poems of Goethe. In three months (December, 1888, toFebruary, 1889) he had written all the _Goethe-Liederbuch_--fifty-one_Lieder_, some of which are, like _Prometheus_, big dramatic scenes. 

The same year, while still at Perchtoldsdorf, after having published avolume of Eichendorff _Lieder_, he became absorbed in a new cycle--the_Spanisches-Liederbuch_, on Spanish poems translated by Heyse. He wrotethese forty-four songs in the same ecstasy of gladness:

 "What I write now, I write for the future. .. . Since Schubert and Schumann there has been nothing like it!"

In 1890, two months after he had finished the _Spanisches-Liederbuch_, he composed another cycle of _Lieder_ on poems called _Alten Weisen_, bythe great Swiss writer Gottfried Keller. And lastly, in the same year, he began his _Italienisches-Liederbuch_, on Italian poems, translated byGeibel and Heyse. 

And then--then there was silence. 

 * * * * *

The history of Wolf is one of the most extraordinary in the history ofart, and gives one a better glimpse of the mysteries of genius than mosthistories do. 

Let us make a little _résumé_. Wolf at twenty-eight years old hadwritten practically nothing. From 1888 to 1890 he wrote, one afteranother, in a kind of fever, fifty-three Mörike _Lieder_, fifty-oneGoethe _Lieder_, forty-four Spanish _Lieder_, seventeen Eichendorff_Lieder_, a dozen Keller _Lieder_, and the first Italian _Lieder_--thatis about two hundred _Lieder_, each one having its own admirableindividuality. 

And then the music stops. The spring has dried up. Wolf in great anguishwrote despairing letters to his friends. To Oskar Grohe, on 2 May, 1891, he wrote:

 "I have given up all idea of composing. Heaven knows how things will finish. Pray for my poor soul. "

And to Wette, on 13 August, 1891, he says:

 "For the last four months I have been suffering from a sort of mental consumption, which makes me very seriously think of quitting this world for ever. .. . Only those who truly live should live at all. I have been for some time like one who is dead. I only wish it were an apparent death; but I am really dead and buried; though the power to control my body gives me a seeming life. It is my inmost, my only desire, that the flesh may quickly follow the spirit that has already passed. For the last fifteen days I have been living at Traunkirchen, the pearl of Traunsee. .. . All the comforts that a man could wish for are here to make my life happy--peace, solitude, beautiful scenery, invigorating air, and everything that could suit the tastes of a hermit like myself. [187] And yet--and yet, my friend, I am the most miserable creature on earth. Everything around me breathes peace and happiness, everything throbs with life and fulfils its functions. .. . I alone, oh God!. .. I alone live like a beast that is deaf and senseless. Even reading hardly serves to distract me now, though I bury myself in books in my despair. As for composition, that is finished; I can no longer bring to mind the meaning of a harmony or a melody, and I almost begin to doubt if the compositions that bear my name are really mine. Good God! what is the use of all this fame? What is the good of these great aims if misery is all that lies at the end of it?. .. 

 "_Heaven gives a man complete genius or no genius at all. Hell has given me everything by halves_. 

 "O unhappy man, how true, how true it is! In the flower of your life you went to hell; into the evil jaws of destiny you threw the delusive present and yourself with it. O Kleist!"

[Footnote 187: Wolf was living there with a friend. He had not a lodgingof his own until 1896, and that was due to the generosity of hisfriends. ]

Suddenly, at Döbling, on 29 November, 1891, the stream of Wolf's geniusflowed again, and he wrote fifteen Italian _Lieder_, sometimes severalin one day. In December it stopped again; and this time for five years. These Italian melodies show, however, no trace of any effort, nor agreater tension of mind than is shown in his preceding works. On thecontrary, they have the air of being the simplest and most natural workthat Wolf ever did. But the matter is of no real consequence, for whenWolf's genius was not stirring within him he was useless. He wished towrite thirty-three Italian _Lieder_, but he had to stop after thetwenty-second, and in 1891 he published one volume only of the_Italienisches-Liederbuch_. The second volume was completed in a month, five years later, in 1896. 

One may imagine the tortures that this solitary man suffered. His onlyhappiness was in creation, and he saw his life cease, without anyapparent cause, for years together, and his genius come and go, andreturn for an instant, and then go again. Each time he must haveanxiously wondered if it had gone for ever, or how long it would bebefore it came back again. In letters to Kaufmann on 6 August, 1891, and26 April, 1893, he says:

 "You ask me for news of my opera. [188] Good Heavens! I should be content if I could write the tiniest little _Liedchen_. And an opera, now?. .. I firmly believe that it is all over with me. .. . I could as well speak Chinese as compose anything. It is horrible. .. . What I suffer from this inaction I cannot tell you. I should like to hang myself. "

To Hugo Faisst he wrote on 21 June, 1894:

 "You ask me the cause of my great depression of spirit, and would pour balm on my wounds. Ah yes, if you only could! But no herb grows that could cure my sickness; only a god could help me. If you can give me back my inspirations, and wake up the familiar spirit that is asleep in me, and let him possess me anew, I will call you a god and raise altars to your name. My cry is to gods and not to men; the gods alone are fit to pronounce my fate. But however it may end, even if the worst comes, I will bear it--yes, even if no ray of sunshine lightens my life again. .. . And with that we will, once for all, turn the page and have done with this dark chapter of my life. "

[Footnote 188: The writing of an opera was Wolf's great dream andintention for many years. ]

This letter--and it is not the only one--recalls the melancholy stoicismof Beethoven's letters, and shows us sorrows that even the unhappyBeethoven did not know. And yet how can we tell? Perhaps Beethoven, too, suffered similar anguish in the sad days that followed 1815, before thelast sonatas, the _Missa Solemnis_, and the Ninth Symphony had awaked tolife in him. 

 * * * * *

In March, 1895, Wolf lived once more, and in three months had writtenthe piano score of _Corregidor_. For many years he had been attractedtowards the stage, and especially towards light opera. Enthusiast thoughhe was for Wagner's work, he had declared openly that it was time formusicians to free themselves from the Wagnerian _Musik-Drama_. He knewhis own gifts, and did not aspire to take Wagner's place. When one ofhis friends offered him a subject for an opera, taken from a legendabout Buddha, he declined it, saying that the world did not yetunderstand the meaning of Buddha's doctrines, and that he had no wish togive humanity a fresh headache. In a letter to Grohe, on 28 June, 1890, he says:

 "Wagner has, by and through his art, accomplished such a mighty work of liberation that we may rejoice to think that it is quite useless for us to storm the skies, since he has conquered them for us. It is much wiser to seek out a pleasant nook in this lovely heaven. I want to find a little place there for myself, not in a desert with water and locusts and wild honey, but in a merry company of primitive beings, among the tinkling of guitars, the sighs of love, the moonlight, and such-like--in short, in a quite ordinary _opéra-comique_, without any rescuing spectre of Schopenhauerian philosophy in the background. "

After having sought the libretto of an opera from the whole world, frompoets ancient and modern, [189] and after having tried to write onehimself, he finally took that of Madame Rosa Mayreder, an adaptation ofa Spanish novelette of Don Pedro de Alarcón. This was _Corregidor_, which, after having been refused by other theatres, was played in June, 1896, at Mannheim. The work was not a success in spite of its musicalqualities, and the poorness of the libretto helped on its failure. 

[Footnote 189: Detlev von Liliencron offered him an American subject. "But in spite of my admiration for Buffalo Bill and his unwashed crew, "said Wolf sarcastically, "I prefer my native soil and people whoappreciate the advantages of soap. "]

But the main thing was that Wolf's creative genius had returned. InApril, 1896, he wrote straight away the twenty-two songs of the secondvolume of the _Italienisches-Liederbuch_. At Christmas his friend Müllersent him some of Michelangelo's poems, translated into German by WalterRobert-Tornow; and Wolf, deeply moved by their beauty, decided at onceto devote a whole volume of _Lieder_ to them. In 1897 he composed thefirst three melodies. At the same time he was also working at a newopera, _Manuel Venegas_, a poem by Moritz Hoernes, written after thestyle of Alarcón. He seemed full of strength and happiness andconfidence in his renewed health. Müller was speaking to him of thepremature death of Schubert, and Wolf replied, "A man is not taken awaybefore he has said all he has to say. "

He worked furiously, "like a steam-engine, " as he said, and was soabsorbed in the composition of _Manuel Venegas_ (September, 1897) thathe went without rest, and had hardly time to take necessary food. In afortnight he had written fifty pages of the pianoforte score, as well asthe _motifs_ for the whole work, and the music of half the first act. 

Then madness came. On 20 September he was seized while he was working atthe great recitative of Manuel Venegas in the first act. 

He was taken to Dr. Svetlin's private hospital in Vienna, and remainedthere until January, 1898. Happily he had devoted friends who took careof him and made up for the indifference of the public; for what he hadearned himself would not have enabled him even to die in peace. WhenSchott, the publisher, sent him in October, 1895, his royalties for theeditions of his _Lieder_ of Mörike, Goethe, Eichendorff, Keller, Spanishpoetry, and the first volume of Italian poetry, their total for fiveyears came to eighty-six marks and thirty-five pfennigs! And Schottcalmly added that he had not expected so good a result. So it was Wolf'sfriends, and especially Hugo Faisst, who not only saved him from miseryby their unobtrusive and often secret generosity, but spared him thehorror of destitution in his last misfortunes. 

He recovered his reason, and was sent in February, 1898, for a voyage toTrieste and Venetia to complete his cure and prevent him from thinkingof work. The precaution was unnecessary; for he says in a letter to HugoFaisst, written in the same month:

 "There is no need for you to trouble yourself or fear that I shall overdo things. A real distaste for work has taken possession of me, and I believe I shall never write another note. My unfinished opera has no more interest for me, and music altogether is hateful. You see what my kind friends have done for me! I cannot think how I shall be able to exist in this state. .. . Ah, happy Swabians! one may well envy you. Greet your beautiful country for me, and be warmly greeted yourself by your unhappy and worn-out friend, Hugo Wolf. "

When he returned to Vienna, however, he seemed to be a little better, and had apparently regained his health and cheerfulness. But to his ownastonishment he had become, as he says in a letter to Faisst, a quiet, sedate, and silent man, who wished more and more to be alone. He did notcompose anything fresh, but revised his Michelangelo _Lieder_, and hadthem published. He made plans for the winter, and rejoiced in thethought of passing it in the country near Gmunden, "in perfect quiet, undisturbed, and living only for art. " In his last letter to Faisst, 17September, 1898, he says:

 "I am quite well again now, and have no more need of any cures. You would need them more than I. "

Then came a fresh seizure of madness, and this time all was finished. 

In the autumn of 1898 Wolf was taken to an asylum at Vienna. At first hewas able to receive a few visits and to enjoy a little music by playingduets with the director of the establishment, who was himself a musicianand a great admirer of Wolf's works. He was even able in the spring totake a few walks out of doors with his friends and an attendant. But hewas beginning not to recognise things or people or even himself. "Yes, "he would say, sighing, "if only I were Hugo Wolf!" From the middle of1899 his malady grew rapidly worse, and general paralysis followed. Atthe beginning of 1900 his speech was affected, and, finally, in August, 1901, all his body. At the beginning of 1902 all hope was given up bythe doctors; but his heart was still sound, and the unhappy man draggedout his life for another year. He died on 16 February, 1903, ofperipneumonia. 

He was given a magnificent funeral, which was attended by all the peoplewho had done nothing for him while he was alive. The Austrian State, thetown of Vienna, his native town Windischgratz, the Conservatoire thathad expelled him, the _Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde_ who had been solong unfriendly to his works, the Opera that had been closed to him, thesingers that had scorned him, the critics that had scoffed at him--theywere all there. They sang one of his saddest melodies, _Resignation_, asetting of a poem of Eichendorff's, and a chorale by his old friendBruckner, who had died several years before him. His faithful friends, Faisst at the head of them, took care to have a monument erected to hismemory near those of Beethoven and Schubert. 

 * * * * *

Such was his life, cut short at thirty-seven years of age--for onecannot count the five years of complete madness. There are not manyexamples in the art world of so terrible a fate. Nietzsche's misfortuneis nowhere beside this, for Nietzsche's madness was, to a certainextent, productive, and caused his genius to flash out in a way that itnever would have done if his mind had been balanced and his healthperfect. Wolf's madness meant prostration. But one may see how, even inthe space of thirty-seven years, his life was strangely parcelled out. For he did not really begin his creative work until he was twenty-sevenyears old; and as from 1890 to 1895 he was condemned to five years'silence, the sum total of his real life, his productive life, is onlyfour or five years. But in those few years he got more out of life thanthe greater part of artists do in a long career, and in his work he leftthe imprint of a personality that no one could forget after once havingknown it. 

 * * * * *

Wolf's work consists chiefly, as we have already seen, of _Lieder_, andthese _Lieder_ are characterised by the application to lyrical music ofprinciples established by Wagner in the domain of drama. That does notmean he imitated Wagner. One finds here and there in Wolf's musicWagnerian forms, just as elsewhere there are evident reminiscences ofBerlioz. It is the inevitable mark of his time, and each great artist inhis turn contributes his share to the enrichment of the language thatbelongs to us all. But the real Wagnerism of Wolf is not made up ofthese unconscious resemblances; it lies in his determination to makepoetry the inspiration of music. "To show, above all, " he wrote toHumperdinck in 1890, "that poetry is the true source of my music. "

When a man is both a poet and a musician, like Wagner, it is naturalthat his poetry and music should harmonise perfectly. But when it is amatter of translating the soul of other poets into music, special giftsof mental subtlety and an abounding sympathy are needed. These giftswere possessed by Wolf in a very high degree. No musician has morekeenly savoured and appreciated the poets. "He was, " said one of hiscritics, G. Kühl, "Germany's greatest psychologist in music sinceMozart. " There was nothing laboured about his psychology. Wolf wasincapable of setting to music poetry that he did not really love. Heused to have the poetry he wished to translate read over to him severaltimes, or in the evening he would read it aloud to himself. If he feltvery stirred by it he lived apart with it, and thought about it, andsoaked himself in its atmosphere; then he went to sleep, and the nextmorning he was able to write the _Lied_ straight away. But some poemsseemed to sleep in him for years, and then would suddenly awake in himin a musical form. On these occasions he would cry out with happiness. "Do you know?" he wrote to Müller, "I simply shouted with joy. " Müllersaid he was like an old hen after it had laid an egg. 

Wolf never chose commonplace poems for his music--which is more than canbe said of Schubert or Schumann. He did not use anything written bycontemporary poets, although he was in sympathy with some of them, suchas Liliencron, who hoped very much to be translated into music by him. But he could not do it; he could not use anything in the work of a greatpoet unless he became so intimate with it that it seemed to be a part ofhim. 

What strikes one also in the _Lieder_ is the importance of thepianoforte accompaniment and its independence of the voice. Sometimesthe voice and the pianoforte express the contrast that so often existsbetween the words and the thought of the poem; at other times theyexpress two personalities, as in his setting of Goethe's _Prometheus_, where the accompaniment represents Zeus sending out his thunderbolts, and the voice interprets Titan; or again, he may depict, as in thesetting of Eichendorff's _Serenade_, a student in love in theaccompaniment, while the song is the voice of an old man who islistening to it and thinking of his youth. But in whatever he isdescribing, the pianoforte and the voice have always their ownindividuality. You cannot take anything away from his _Lieder_ withoutspoiling the whole; and it is especially so with his instrumentalpassages, which give us the beginning and end of his emotion, and whichcircle round it and sum it up. The musical form, following closely thepoetic form, is extremely varied. It may sometimes express a fugitivethought, a brief record of a poetic impression or some little action, orit may be a great epic or dramatic picture. Müller remarks that Wolf putmore into a poem than the poet himself--as in the_Italienisches-Liederbuch_. It is the worst reproach they can make abouthim, and it is not an ordinary one. Wolf excelled especially in settingpoems which accorded with his own tragic fate, as if he had somepresentiment of it. No one has better expressed the anguish of atroubled and despairing soul, such as we find in the old harp-player in_Wilhelm Meister_, or the splendid nihility of certain poems ofMichelangelo. 

Of all his collections of _Lieder_, the 53 _Gedichte von Eduard Mörike, komponiert für eine Singstimme und Klavier_ (1888), the first published, is the most popular. It gained many friends for Wolf, not so much amongartists (who are always in the minority) as among those critics who arethe best and most disinterested of all--the homely, honest people whodo not make a profession of art, but enjoy it as their spiritual dailybread. There are a number of these people in Germany, whose hard livesare beautified by their love of music. Wolf found these friends in allparts, but he found most of them in Swabia. At Stuttgart, at Mannheim, at Darmstadt, and in the country round about these towns he became verypopular--the only popular musician since Schubert and Schumann. Allclasses of society unite in loving him. "His _Lieder_, " says HerrDecsey, "are on the pianos of even the poorest houses, by the side ofSchubert's _Lieder_. " Stuttgart became for Wolf, as he said himself, asecond home. He owes this popularity, which is without parallel inSwabia, to the people's passionate love of _Lieder_ and, above all, ofthe poetry of Mörike, the Swabian pastor, who lives again in Wolf'ssongs. Wolf has set to music a quarter of Mörike's poems, he has broughtMörike into his own, and given him one of the first places among Germanpoets. Such was really his intention, and he said so when he had aportrait of Mörike put on the title-page of the songs. Whether thereading of his poetry acted as a balm to Wolf's unquiet spirit, orwhether he became conscious of his genius for the first time when heexpressed this poetry in music, I do not know; but he felt deepgratitude towards it, and wished to show it by beginning the firstvolume with that fine and rather Beethoven-like song, _Der Genesende andie Hoffnung_ ("The Convalescent's Ode to Hope"). 

The fifty-one _Lieder_ of the _Goethe-Liederbuch_ (1888-89) werecomposed in groups of _Lieder_: the _Wilhelm Meister Lieder_, the_Divan (Suleika) Lieder_, etc. Wolf even tried to identify himself withthe poet's line of thought; and in this we often find him in rivalrywith Schubert. He avoided using the poems in which he thought Schuberthad exactly conveyed the poet's meaning, as in _Geheimes_ and _AnSchwager Kronos_; but he told Müller that there were times when Schubertdid not understand Goethe at all, because he concerned himself withtranslating their general lyrical thought rather than with showing thereal nature of Goethe's characters. The peculiar interest of Wolf's_Lieder_ is that he gives each poetic figure its individual character. The Harpist and Mignon are traced with marvellous insight and restraint;and in some passages Wolf shows that he has re-discovered Goethe's artof presenting a whole world of sadness in a single word. The serenity ofa great soul soars over the chaos of passions. 

The _Spanisches-Liederbuch nach Heyse und Geibel_ (1889-90) had alreadyinspired Schumann, Brahms, Cornelius, and others. But none had tried togive it its rough and sensual character. Müller shows how Schumann, especially, robbed the poems of their true nature. Not only did heinvest them with his own sentimentalism, but he calmly arranged poems ofthe most marked individual character to be sung by four voices, whichmakes them quite absurd; and, worse than this, he changed the words andtheir sense when they stood in his way. Wolf, on the contrary, steepedhimself in this melancholy and voluptuous world, and would not letanything draw him from it; and out of it he produced, as he himselfsaid proudly, some masterpieces. The ten religious songs that come atthe beginning of the collection suggest the delusions of mysticism, andweep tears of blood; they are distressing to the ear and mind alike, forthey are the passionate expression of a faith that puts itself on therack. By the side of them one finds smiling visions of the Holy Family, which recall Murillo. The thirty-four folk-songs are brilliant, restless, whimsical, and wonderfully varied in form. Each represents adifferent subject, a personality drawn with incisive strokes, and thewhole collection overflows with life. It is said that the_Spanisches-Liederbuch_ is to Wolf's work what _Tristan_ is to Wagner'swork. 

The _Italienisches-Liederbuch_ (1890-96) is quite different. Thecharacter of the songs is very restrained, and Wolf's genius hereapproached a classic clearness of form. He was always seeking tosimplify his musical language, and said that if he wrote anything more, he wished it to be like Mozart's writings. These _Lieder_ containnothing that is not absolutely essential to their subject; so themelodies are very short, and are dramatic rather than lyrical. Wolf gavethem an important place in his work: "I consider them, " he wrote toKaufmann, "the most original and perfect of my compositions. "

As for the _Michelangelo Gedichten_ (1897), they were interrupted by theoutbreak of his malady, and he had only time to write four, of which hesuppressed one. Their associations are pathetic when one remembers thetragic time at which they were composed; and, by a sort of propheticinstinct, they exhale heaviness of spirit and mournful pride. The secondmelody is perhaps more beautiful than anything else Wolf wrote; it istruly his death-song:

 _Alles endet, was entstehet. Alles, alles rings vergehet_. [190]

And it is a dead man that sings:

 _Menschen waren wir ja auch, Froh und traurig, so wie Ihr. Und nun sind wir leblos hier, Sind nur Erde, wie Ihr sehet_. [191]

At the moment he was writing this song, in the short respite he had fromhis illness, he himself was nearly a dead man. 

[Footnote 190:

 All that is begun must end, All around will sometime perish. 

[Footnote 191:

 Once we were also men Happy or sad like you; Now life is taken from us, We are only of earth, as you see. 

 _Chiunque nasce a morte arriva Nel fuggir del tempo, e'l sole Niuna cosa lascia viva. .. . Come voi, uomini fummo, Lieti e tristi, come siete; E or siam, come vedete, Terra al sol, di vita priva_. 

 (Poems of Michelangelo, CXXXVI. )

 * * * * *

As soon as Wolf was really dead his genius was recognised all overGermany. His sufferings provoked an almost excessive reaction in hisfavour. _Hugo-Wolf-Vereine_ were founded everywhere; and to-day we havepublications, collections of letters, souvenirs, and biographies inabundance. It is a case of who can cry loudest that he always understoodthe genius of the unhappy artist, and work himself into the greatestfury against his traducers. A little later, and monuments and statueswill spring up all over. 

I doubt if Wolf with his rough, sincere nature would have found muchconsolation in this tardy homage if he could have foreseen it. He wouldhave said to his posthumous admirers: "You are hypocrites. It is not forme that you raise those statues; it is for yourselves. It is that youmay make speeches, form committees, and delude yourselves and othersthat you were my friends. Where were you when I had need of you? You letme die. Do not play a comedy round my grave. Look rather around you, andsee if there are not other Wolfs who are struggling against yourhostility or your indifference. As for me, I have come safe to port. "

DON LORENZO PEROSI

The winter that held Italian thought in its cold clasp is over, andgreat trees that seemed to be asleep are putting out new life in thesun. Yesterday it was poetry that awaked, and to-day it is music--thesweet music of Italy, calm in its passion and sadness, and artless inits knowledge. Are we really witnessing the return of its spring? Is itthe incoming of some great tide of melody, which will wash away thegloom and doubt of our life to-day? As I was reading the oratorios ofthis young priest of Piedmont, I thought I heard, far away, the song ofthe children of old Greece: "The swallow has come, has come, bringingthe gay seasons and glad years. Ear êdê. " I welcome the coming of DonLorenzo Perosi with great hope. 

[Illustration: greek207]

 * * * * *

The abbé Perosi, the precentor of St. Mark's chapel at Venice and thedirector of the Sistine chapel, is twenty-six years old. [192] He isshort in stature and of youthful appearance, with a head a little toobig for his body, and open and regular features lighted up byintelligent black eyes, his only peculiarity being a projectingunderlip. 

[Footnote 192: This article was written in 1899, on the occasion ofLorenzo Perosi's coming to Paris to direct his oratorio _LaRésurrection_. ] He is simple-hearted and modest, and has a friendlywarmth of affection. When he is conducting the orchestra his strikingsilhouette, his slow and awkward gestures in expressive passages, andhis naïve movements of passion at dramatic moments, bring to mind one ofFra Angelico's monks. 

For the last eighteen months Don Perosi has been working at a cycle oftwelve oratorios descriptive of the life of Christ. In this short timehe has finished four: _The Passion_, _The Transfiguration_, _TheResurrection of Lazarus_, _The Resurrection of Christ_. Now he is atwork on the fifth--_The Nativity_. 

These compositions alone place him in the front rank of contemporarymusicians. They abound in faults; but their qualities are so rare, andhis soul shines so clearly through them, and such fine sinceritybreathes in them, that I have not the courage to dwell on theirweaknesses. So I shall content myself with remarking, in passing, thatthe orchestration is inadequate and awkward, and that the young musicianshould strive to make it fuller and more delicate; and though he showsgreat ease in composition, he is often too impetuous, and should resistthis tendency; and that, lastly, there are sometimes traces of bad tastein the music and reminiscences of the classics--all of which are thesins of youth, which age will certainly cure. 

Each of the oratorios is really a descriptive mass, which from beginningto end traces out one dominating thought. Don Perosi said to me: "Themistake of artists to-day is that they attach themselves too much todetails and neglect the whole. They begin by carving ornaments, andforget that the most important thing is the unity of their work, itsplan and general outline. The outline must first of all be beautiful. "

In his own musical architecture one finds well-marked airs, numerousrecitatives, Gregorian or Palestrinian choruses, chorales withdevelopments and variations in the old style, and intervening symphoniesof some importance. 

The whole work is to be preceded by a grand prelude, very carefullyworked out, to which Don Perosi attaches particular worth. He wishes, hesays, that his building shall have a beautiful door elaborately carvedafter the fashion of the artists of the Renaissance and Gothic times. And so he means to compose the prelude after the rest of the oratorio isfinished, when he is able to think about it in undisturbed peace. Hewishes to concentrate a moral atmosphere in it, the very essence of thesoul and passions of his sacred drama. He also confided to me that ofall he has yet composed there is nothing he likes better than theintroductions to _The Transfiguration_ and _The Resurrection of Christ_. 

The dramatic tendency of these oratorios is very marked, and it ischiefly on that account that they have conquered Italy. In spite of somepassages which have strayed a little in the direction of opera, or evenmelodrama, the music shows great depth of feeling. The figures of thewomen especially are drawn with delicacy; and in the second part of_Lazarus_, Mary's air, "Lord, if Thou hadst been here, my brother hadnot died, " recalls something of Gluck's _Orfeo_ in its heart-brokensadness. And again, in the same oratorio, when Jesus gives the order toraise the stone from the tomb, Martha's speech, "Domine, jam foetet, " isvery expressive of her sadness, fear, and shame, and human horror. Ishould like to quote one more passage, the most moving of all, which isfound in the _Resurrection of Christ_, when Mary Magdalene is beside thetomb of Christ; here, in her speech with the angels, in her touchinglamentation, and in the words of the Evangelist, "And when she had thussaid, she turned herself back, and saw Jesus standing, and knew not thatit was Jesus, " we hear a melody filled with tenderness, and seem to seeChrist's eyes shining as they rest on Mary before she has recognisedHim. 

It is not, however, Perosi's dramatic genius that strikes me in hiswork; it is rather his peculiar mournfulness, which is indescribable, his gift of pure poetry, and the richness of his flowing melody. Howeverdeep the religious feeling in the music may be, the music itself isoften stronger still, and breaks in upon the drama that it may expressitself freely. Take, for instance, the fine symphonic passage thatfollows the arrival of Jesus and His friends at Martha and Mary's house, after the death of their brother (p. 12 _et seq. _ of _Lazarus_). It istrue the orchestra expresses regrets and sighs, the excesses of sorrowmingled with words of consolation and faith, in a sort of languishingfuneral march that is feminine and Christian in character. This, according to the composer, is a picture he has painted of the persons inthe drama before he makes them speak. But, in spite of himself, theresult is a flood of pure music, and his soul sings its own song of joyand sadness. Sometimes his spirit, in its naïve and delicate charm, recalls that of Mozart; but his musical visions are always dominated anddirected by a religious strength like that of Bach. Even the portionswhere the dramatic feeling is strongest are really little symphonies, such as the music that describes the miracle in _The Transfiguration_, and the illness of Lazarus. In the latter great depth of suffering isexpressed; indeed, sadness could not have been carried farther even byBach, and the same serenity of mind runs through its despair. 

But what joy there is when these deeds of faith have beenperformed--when Jesus has cured the possessed man, or when Lazarus hasopened his eyes to the light. The heart of the multitude overflowsperhaps in rather childish thanksgiving; and at first it seemed to meexpressed in a commonplace way. But did not the joy of all great artistsso express itself?--the joy of Beethoven, Mozart, and Bach, who, whenonce they had thrown their cares aside, knew how to amuse themselveslike the rest of the populace. And the simple phrase at the beginningsoon assumes fuller proportions, the harmonies gain in richness, aglowing ardour fills the music, and a chorale blends with the dances intriumphant majesty. 

All these works are radiant with a happy ease of expression. _ThePassion_ was finished in September, 1897, _The Transfiguration_ inFebruary, 1898. _Lazarus_ in June, 1898, and _The Resurrection ofChrist_ in November, 1898. Such an output of work takes us back toeighteenth-century musicians. 

But this is not the only resemblance between the young musician and hispredecessors. Much of their soul has passed into his. His style is madeup of all styles, and ranges from the Gregorian chant to the most modernmodulations. All available materials are used in this work. This is anItalian characteristic. Gabriel d'Annunzio threw into his melting-potthe Renaissance, the Italian painters, music, the writers of the North, Tolstoy, Dostoïevsky, Maeterlinck, and our French writers, and out of ithe drew his wonderful poems. So Don Perosi, in his compositions, weldstogether the Gregorian chant, the musical style of the contrapuntists ofthe fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, Palestrina, Roland, Gabrieli, Carissimi, Schütz, Bach, Händel, Gounod, Wagner--I was going to sayCésar Franck, but Don Perosi told me that he hardly knew this composerat all, though his style bears some resemblance to Franck's. 

Time does not exist for Don Perosi. When he courteously wished to praiseFrench musicians, the first name he chose--as if it were that of acontemporary--was that of Josquin, and then that of Roland de Lassus, who seems to him so great and profound a musician that he admires himmost of all. And Don Perosi's universality of style is a trait that isCatholic as well as Italian. He expresses his mind quite clearly on thesubject. "Great artists formerly, " he says, "were more eclectic thanourselves, and less fettered by their nationalities. Josquin's schoolhas peopled all Europe. Roland has lived in Flanders, in Italy, and inGermany. With them the same style expressed the same thought everywhere. We must do as they did. We must try to recreate a universal art in whichthe resources of all countries and all times are blended. "

As a matter of fact, I do not think this is quite correct. I ratherdoubt if Josquin and Roland were eclectic at all; for they did notreally combine the styles of different countries, but thrust upon othercountries the style that the Franco-Flemish school had just created, astyle which they themselves were enriching daily. But Don Perosi's ideadeserves our appreciation, and one must praise his endeavour to create auniversal style. It would be a good thing for music if eclecticism, thusunderstood, could bring back some of the equilibrium that has been lostsince Wagner's death; it would be a benefit to the human spirit, whichmight then find in the unity of art a powerful means of bringing aboutthe unity of mind. Our aim should be to efface the differences of racein art, so that it may become a tongue common to all peoples, where themost opposite ideas may be reconciled. We should all join in working tobuild the cathedral of European art. And the place of the director ofthe Sistine chapel among the first builders is very plain. 

 * * * * *

Don Perosi sat down to the piano and played me the _Te Deum_ of _TheNativity_, which he had written the day before. He played very sweetly, with youthful gaiety, and sang the choral parts in an undertone. Everynow and then he would look at me, not for praise, but to see if we weresharing the same thoughts. He would look me well in the face with hisquiet eyes, then turn back to his score, and then look at me again. AndI felt a comforting calm radiating from him and his music, from itshappy harmony and the full and rhythmic serenity of its spirit. And howpleasant it was after the tempests and convulsions of art in these laterdays. Can we not tear ourselves away from that romantic suffering inmusic which was begun by Beethoven? After a century of battles, ofrevolutions, and of political and social strife, whose pain has foundits reflection in art, let us begin to build a new city of art, wheremen may gather together in brotherly love for the same ideal. HoweverUtopian that hope may sound now, let us think of it as a symptom of newdirections of thought, and let us hope that Don Perosi may be one ofthose who will bring into music that divine peace, that peace whichBeethoven craved for in despair at the end of his _Missa Solemnis_, thatjoy that he sang about but never knew. 

FRENCH AND GERMAN MUSIC

In May, 1905, the first musical festival of Alsace-Lorraine took placeat Strasburg. It was an important artistic event, and meant the bringingtogether of two civilisations that for centuries had been at variance onthe soil of Alsace, more anxious for dispute than for mutualunderstanding. 

The official programme of the _fêtes musicales_ laid stress on thereconciliatory purpose of its organisers, and I quote these words fromthe programme book, drawn up by Dr. Max Bendiner, of Strasburg:

 "Music may achieve the highest of all missions: she may be a bond between nations, races, and states, who are strangers to one another in many ways; she may unite what is disunited, and bring peace to what is hostile. .. . No country is more suited for her friendly aid than Alsace-Lorraine, that old meeting-place of people, where from time immemorial the North and South have exchanged their material and their spiritual wealth; and no place is readier to welcome her than Strasburg, an old town built by the Romans, which has remained to this day a centre of spiritual life. All great intellectual currents have left their mark on the people of Alsace-Lorraine; and so they have been destined to play the part of mediator between different times and different peoples; and the East and the West, the past and the present, meet here and join hands. In such festivals as this, it is not a matter of gaining aesthetic victories; it is a matter of bringing together all that is great and noble and eternal in the art of different times and different nations. "

It was a splendid ambition for Alsace--the eternal field of battle--towish to inaugurate these European Olympian games. But in spite of goodintentions, this meeting of nations resulted in a fight, on musicalground, between two civilisations and two arts--French art and Germanart. For these two arts represent to-day all that is truly alive inEuropean music. 

Such jousts are very stirring, and may be of great service to allcombatants. But, unhappily, France was very indifferent in the matter. It was the duty of our musicians and critics to attend an internationalencounter like this, and to see that the conditions of the combat werefair. By that I mean our art should be represented as it ought to be, sothat we may learn something from the result. But the French public doesnothing at such a time; it remains absorbed in its concerts at Paris, where everyone knows everyone else so well that they are not able and donot dare to criticise freely. And so our art is withering away in anatmosphere of coteries, instead of seeking the open air and enjoying avigorous fight with foreign art. For the majority of our critics wouldrather deny the existence of foreign art than try to understand it. Never have I regretted their indifference more than I did at theStrasburg festival, where, in spite of the unfavourable conditions inwhich French art was represented through our own carelessness, Irealised what its force might have been if we had been interestedspectators in the fight. 

 * * * * *

Perfect eclecticism had been exercised in the making up of theprogramme. One found mixed together the names of Mozart, Wagner, andBrahms; César Franck and Gustave Charpentier; Richard Strauss andMahler. There were French singers like Cazeneuve and Daraux, and Frenchand Italian virtuosi like Henri Marteau and Ferruccio Busoni, togetherwith German, Austrian, and Scandinavian artists. The orchestra (the_Strassbürger Städtische Orchester_) and the choir, which was formed ofdifferent _Chorvereine_ of Strasburg, were conducted by Richard Strauss, Gustav Mahler, and Camille Chevillard. But the names of these famous_Kapellmeister_ must not let us forget the man who was really the soulof the concerts--Professor Ernst Münch, of Strasburg, an Alsatian, whoconducted all the rehearsals, and who effaced himself at the lastmoment, and left all the honours to the conductors of foreignorchestras. Professor Münch, who is also organist at Saint-Guillaume, has done more than anyone else for music in Strasburg, and has trainedexcellent choirs (the "_Choeurs de Saint-Guillaume_") there, andorganised splendid concerts of Bach's music with the aid of anotherAlsatian, Albert Schweitzer, whose name is well known to musicalhistorians. The latter is director of the clerical college of St. Thomas(_Thomasstift_), a pastor, an organist, a professor at the University ofStrasburg, and the author of interesting works on theology andphilosophy. Besides this he has written a now famous book, _Jean-Sebastien Bach_, which is doubly remarkable: first, because it iswritten in French (though it was published in Leipzig by a professor ofthe University of Strasburg), and secondly, because it shows anharmonious blend of the French and German spirit, and gives fresh lifeto the study of Bach and the old classic art. It was very interesting tome to make the acquaintance of these people, born on Alsatian soil, andrepresenting the best Alsatian culture and all that was finest in thetwo civilisations. 

The programme for the three days' festival was as follows:

Saturday, May 20th. 

 _Oberon Overture_: Weber (conducted by Richard Strauss). 

 _Les Béatitudes_: César Franck (conducted by Camille Chevillard). 

 _Impressions d'ltalie_: Gustav Charpentier (conducted by Camille Chevillard). 

 Three songs by Jean Sibelius, Hugo Wolf, Armas Järnefelt (sung by Mme. Järnefelt). 

 The last scene from _Die Meistersinger_: Wagner (conducted by Richard Strauss). 

Sunday, May 21st. 

 _Cinquième Symphonie_: Gustav Mahler (conducted by Gustav Mahler). 

 _Rhapsodie_, for contralto, choir, and orchestra: Johannes Brahms (conducted by Ernst Münch). 

 _Strasburg Concerto in G major_, for violin (played by Henri Marteau; conducted by Richard Strauss). 

 _Sinfonia domestica_: Richard Strauss (conducted by Richard Strauss). 

Monday, May 22nd. 

 _Coriolan Overture_: Beethoven (conducted by Gustav Mahler). 

 _Concerto in G major_, for piano: Beethoven (played by Ferruccio Busoni). 

 _Lieder: An die enfernie Geliebte_: Beethoven (sung by Ludwig Hess). 

 _Choral Symphony_: Beethoven (conducted by Gustav Mahler). 

 * * * * *

M. Chevillard alone represented our French musicians at the festival;and they could have made no better choice of a conductor. But Germanyhad delegated her two greatest composers, Strauss and Mahler, to come toconduct their newest compositions. And I think it would not have beentoo much to set up one of our own foremost composers to combat the glorywhich these two enjoy in their own country. 

M. Chevillard had been asked to conduct, not one of the works of ourrecent masters, like Debussy or Dukas, whose style he renders toperfection, but Franck's _Les Béatitudes_, a work whose spirit he doesnot, to my mind, quite understand. The mystic tenderness of Franckescapes him, and he brings out only what is dramatic. And so thatperformance of _Les Béatitudes_, though in many respects fine, left animperfect idea of Franck's genius. 

But what seemed inconceivable, and what justly annoyed M. Chevillard, was that the whole of _Les Béatitudes_ was not given, but only a sectionof them. And on this subject I shall take the liberty of recommendingthat French artists who are guests at similar festivals should not infuture agree to a programme with their eyes shut, but have their ownwishes considered, or refuse their help. If French musicians are to begiven a place in German _Musikfeste_, French people must be allowed tochoose the works that are to represent them. And, above all, a Frenchconductor must not be brought from Paris, and find on his arrival amutilated score and an arbitrary choice of a few fragments that are noteven whole in themselves. For they played five out of the eight_Béatitudes_, and cuts had been made in the third and eighth_Béatitudes_. That showed a want of respect for art, for works should begiven as they are, or not at all. 

And it would have been more seemly if in this three-day festival theorganisers had had the courteousness to devote the first day to Frenchmusic, and had set aside one whole concert for it. But, without doubt, they had carefully sandwiched the French works in between German worksto weaken their effect, and lessen the probable (and actual) enthusiasmwith which French music would be received in the presence of theStatthalter of Alsace-Lorraine by a section of the Alsatian public. Inaddition to this, and by a choice that neither myself nor anyone else inStrasburg could believe was dictated by musical reasons, the German workchosen to end the evening was the final scene from _Die Meistersinger_, with its ringing couplet from Hans Sachs, in which he denounces foreigninsincerity and foreign frivolity (_Wälschen Dunst mit wälschen Tand_). This lack of courtesy--though the words were really nonsense when thisvery concert was given to show that foreign art could not beignored--would not be worth while raking up if it did not further serveto show how regrettable is the indifference of French artists who takepart in these festivals. And this mistake would never have occurred ifthey had taken care to acquaint themselves with the programme beforehandand put their veto upon it. 

I have mentioned this little incident partly because my views wereshared by many Alsatians in the audience, who expressed their annoyanceto me afterwards. But, putting it aside, our French artists ought not tohave consented to let our music be represented by a mutilated score of_Les Béatitudes_ and by Charpentier's _Impressions d'Italie_, for thelatter, though a brilliantly clever work, is not of the first rank, andwas too easily crushed by one of Wagner's most stupendous compositions. If people wish to institute a joust between French and German art, letit be a fair one, I repeat; let Wagner be matched with Berlioz, andStrauss with Debussy, and Mahler with Dukas or Magnard. 

 * * * * *

Such were the conditions of the combat; and they were, whetherintentionally or not, unfavourable to France. And yet to the eyes of animpartial observer the result was full of hope and encouragement for us. 

I have never bothered myself in art with questions of nationality. Ihave not even concealed my preference for German music; and I consider, even to-day, that Richard Strauss is the foremost musical composer inEurope. Having said this, I am freer to speak of the strange impressionthat I had at the Strasburg festival--an impression of the change thatis coming over music, and the way that French art is silently settingabout taking the place of German art. 

"_Wälschen Dunst und wälschen Tand_. .. . " How that reproachful speechseems to be misplaced when one is listening to the honest thoughtexpressed in César Franck's music. In _Les Béatitudes_, nothing, or nextto nothing, was done for art's sake. It is the soul speaking to thesoul. As Beethoven wrote, at the end of his mass in D, "_Vom Herzen . .. Zu Herzen_!" ("It comes from the heart to go to the heart"). I know noone but Franck in the last century, unless it is Beethoven, who haspossessed in so high a degree the virtue of being himself and speakingonly the truth without thought of his public. Never before hasreligious faith been expressed with such sincerity. Franck is the onlymusician besides Bach who has really _seen_ the Christ, and who can makeother people see him too. I would even venture to say that his Christ issimpler than Bach's; for Bach's thoughts are often led away by theinterest of developing his subject, by certain habits of composition, and by repetitions and clever devices, which weaken his strength. InFranck's music we get Christ's speech itself, unadorned and in all itsliving force. And in the wonderful harmony between the music and thesacred words we hear the voice of the world's conscience. I once heardsomeone say to Mme. Cosima Wagner that certain passages in _Parsifal_, particularly the chorus "_Durch Mitleid wissend_, " had a quality thatwas truly religious and the force of a revelation. But I find a greaterforce and a more truly Christian spirit in _Les Béatitudes_. 

And here is an astonishing thing. At this German musical festival it wasa Frenchman who represented not only serious music moulded in aclassical form, but a religious spirit and the spirit of the Gospels. The characters of two nations have been reversed. The Germans have sochanged that they are only able to appreciate this seriousness andreligious faith with difficulty. I watched the audience on thisoccasion; they listened politely, a little astonished and bored, as ifto say, "What business has this Frenchman with depth and piety ofsoul?"

"There is no doubt, " said Henri Lichtenberger, who sat by me at theconcert, "our music is beginning to bore the Germans. "

It was only the other day that German music enjoyed the privilege ofboring us in France. 

And so, to make up for the austere grandeur of _Les Béatitudes_ they hadit immediately followed by Gustave Charpentier's _Impressions d'Italie_. You should have seen the relief of the audience. At last they were tohave some French music--as Germans understand it. Charpentier is, of allliving French musicians, the most liked in Germany; he is indeed theonly one who is popular with artists and the general public alike. ShallI say that the sincere pleasure they take in his orchestration and thegay life of his subjects is enhanced a little by a slight disdain forFrench frivolity--_wälschen Tand_?

"Now listen to that, " said Richard Strauss to me during the thirdmovement of _Impressions d'Italie_; "that is the true music ofMontmartre, the utterance of fine words . .. Liberty!. .. Love!. .. Whichno one believes. "

And on the whole he found the music quite charming, and, without doubt, in the depths of his heart approved of this Frenchman according toconventional notions that are current in Germany alone. Strauss isreally very fond of Charpentier, and was his patron in Berlin; and Iremember how he showed childish delight in _Louise_ when it was firstperformed in Paris. 

But Strauss, and most other Germans, are quite on the wrong track whenthey try to persuade themselves that this amusing French frivolity isstill the exclusive property of France. They really love it because ithas become German; and they are quite unconscious of the fact. TheGerman artists of other times did not find much pleasure in frivolity;but I could have easily shown Strauss his liking for it by takingexamples from his own works. The Germans of to-day have but little incommon with the Germans of yesterday. 

I am not speaking of the general public only, The German public ofto-day are devotees of Brahms and Wagner, and everything of theirs seemsgood to them; they have no discrimination, and, while they applaudWagner and encore Brahms, they are, in their hearts, not only frivolous, but sentimental and gross. The most striking thing about this public istheir cult of power since Wagner's death. When listening to the end of_Die Meistersinger_ I felt how the haughty music of the great marchreflected the spirit of this military nation of shop-keepers, burstingwith rude health and complacent pride. 

The most remarkable thing of all is that German artists are graduallylosing the power of understanding their own splendid classics and, inparticular, Beethoven. Strauss, who is very shrewd and knows exactly hisown limitations, does not willingly enter Beethoven's domain, though hefeels his spirit in a much more living way than any of the other German_Kapellmeister_. At the Strasburg festival he contented himself withconducting, besides his own symphony, the _Oberon Overture_ and a Mozartconcerto. These performances were interesting; a personality like hisis so curious that it is quite amusing to find it coming out in theworks he conducts. But how Mozart's features took on an offhand andimpatient air; and how the rhythms were accentuated at the expense ofthe melodic grace. In this case, however, Strauss was dealing with aconcerto, where a certain liberty of interpretation is allowed. ButMahler, who was less discreet, ventured upon conducting the whole of theBeethoven concert. And what can be said of that evening? I will notspeak of the _Concerto for pianoforte, in G major_, which Busoni playedwith a brilliant and superficial execution that took away all breadthfrom the work; it is enough to note that his interpretation wasenthusiastically received by the public. German artists were notresponsible for that performance; but they were responsible for thatfine cycle of _Lieder, An die entfernte Geliebte_, which was bellowed bya Berlin tenor at the top of his voice, and for the _Choral Symphony_, which was, for me, an unspeakable performance. I could never havebelieved that a German orchestra conducted by the chief _Kapellmeister_of Austria could have committed such misdeeds. The time was incredible:the scherzo had no life in it; the adagio was taken in hot haste withoutleaving a moment for dreams; and there were pauses in the finale whichdestroyed the development of the theme and broke the thread of itsthought. The different parts of the orchestra fell over one another, andthe whole was uncertain and lacking in balance. I once severelycriticised the neo-classic stiffness of Weingartner; but I should haveappreciated his healthy equilibrium and his effort to be exact afterhearing this neurasthenic rendering of Beethoven. No; we can no longerhear Beethoven and Mozart in Germany to-day, we can only hear Mahler andStrauss. Well, let it be so. We will resign ourselves. The past is past. Let us leave Beethoven and Mozart, and speak of Mahler and Strauss. 

 * * * * *

Gustav Mahler is forty-six years old. [193] He is a kind of legendarytype of German musician, rather like Schubert, and half-way between aschool-master and a clergyman. He has a long, clean-shaven face, apointed skull covered with untidy hair, a bald forehead, a prominentnose, eyes that blink behind his glasses, a large mouth and thin lips, hollow cheeks, a rather tired and sarcastic expression, and a generalair of asceticism. He is excessively nervous, and silhouette caricaturesof him, representing him as a cat in convulsions in the conductor'sdesk, are very popular in Germany. 

[Footnote 193: This essay was written in 1905. ]

He was born at Kalischt in Bohemia, and became a pupil of AntonBruckner at Vienna, and afterwards _Hofoperndirecktor_ ("Director of theOpera") there. I hope one day to study this artist's work in greaterdetail, for he is second only to Strauss as a composer in Germany, andthe principal musician of South Germany. 

His most important work is a suite of symphonies; and it was the fifthsymphony of this suite that he conducted at the Strasburg festival. Thefirst symphony, called _Titan_, was composed in 1894. The constructionof the whole is on a massive and gigantic scale; and the melodies onwhich these works are built up are like rough-hewn blocks of not verygood quality, but imposing by reason of their size, and by the obstinaterepetition of their rhythmic design, which is maintained as if it werean obsession. This heaping-up of music both crude and learned in style, with harmonies that are sometimes clumsy and sometimes delicate, isworth considering on account of its bulk. The orchestration is heavy andnoisy; and the brass dominates and roughly gilds the rather sombrecolouring of the great edifice. The underlying idea of the compositionis neo-classic, and rather spongy and diffuse. Its harmonic structure iscomposite: we get the style of Bach, Schubert, and Mendelssohn fightingthat of Wagner and Bruckner; and, by a decided liking for canon form, iteven recalls some of Franck's work. The whole is like a showy andexpensive collection of bric-à-brac. 

The chief characteristic of these symphonies is, generally speaking, theuse of choral singing with the orchestra. "When I conceive a greatmusical painting (_ein grosses musikalisches Gemälde_), " says Mahler, "there always comes a moment when I feel forced to employ speech (_dasWort_) as an aid to the realisation of my musical conception. "

Mahler has got some striking effects from this combination of voices andinstruments, and he did well to seek inspiration in this direction fromBeethoven and Liszt. It is incredible that the nineteenth century shouldhave put this combination to so little use; for I think the gain may bepoetical as well as musical. 

In the _Second Symphony in C minor_, the first three parts are purelyinstrumental; but in the fourth part the voice of a contralto is heardsinging these sad and simple words:

 "_Der Mensch liegt in grösster Noth! Der Mensch liegt in grösster Pein! Je lieber möcht ich im Himmel sein_!"[194]

The soul strives to reach God with the passionate cry:

 "_Ich bin von Gott und will wieder zu Gott_. "[195]

Then there is a symphonic episode (_Der Rufer in der Wüste_), and wehear "the voice of one crying in the wilderness" in fierce and anguishedtones. There is an apocalyptic finale where the choir sing Klopstock'sbeautiful ode on the promise of the Resurrection:

 "_Aufersteh'n, ja, aufersteh'n wirst du, mein Staub, nach kurzer Ruh_!"[196]

The law is proclaimed with:

 "_Was entstanden ist, dass mus vergehen, Was vergangen, auferstehen_!"[197]

[Footnote 194: Man lies in greatest misery; Man lies in greatest pain; Iwould I were in Heaven!]

[Footnote 195: I come from God, and shall to God return. ]

[Footnote 196: Thou wilt rise again, thou wilt rise again, O my dust, after a little rest. ]

[Footnote 197: What is born must pass away; What has passed away mustrise again. ]

And all the orchestra, the choirs, and the organ, join in the hymn ofEternal Life. 

In the _Third Symphony_, known as _Ein Sommermorgentraum_ ("A SummerMorning's Dream"), the first and the last parts are for the orchestraalone; the fourth part contains some of the best of Mahler's music, andis an admirable setting of Nietzsche's words:

 "_O Mensch! O Mensch! Gib Acht! gib Acht! Was spricht die tiefe Mitternacht_?"[198]

[Footnote 198:

 O Man! O Man! Have care! Have care! What says dark midnight?

The fifth part is a gay and stirring chorus founded on a popular legend. 

In the _Fourth Symphony in G major_, the last part alone is sung, and isof an almost humorous character, being a sort of childish description ofthe joys of Paradise. 

In spite of appearances, Mahler refuses to connect these choralsymphonies with programme-music. Without doubt he is right, if he meansthat his music has its own value outside any sort of programme; butthere is no doubt that it is always the expression of a definite_Stimmung_, of a conscious mood; and the fact is, whether he likes it ornot, that _Stimmung_ gives an interest to his music far beyond that ofthe music itself. His personality seems to me far more interesting thanhis art. 

This is often the case with artists in Germany; Hugo Wolf is anotherexample of it. Mahler's case is really rather curious. When one studieshis works one feels convinced that he is one of those rare types inmodern Germany--an egoist who feels with sincerity. Perhaps his emotionsand his ideas do not succeed in expressing themselves in a reallysincere and personal way; for they reach us through a cloud ofreminiscences and an atmosphere of classicism. I cannot help thinkingthat Mahler's position as director of the Opera, and his consequentsaturation in the music that his calling condemns him to study, is thecause of this. There is nothing more fatal to a creative spirit than toomuch reading, above all when it does not read of its own free will, butis forced to absorb an excessive amount of nourishment, the larger partof which is indigestible. In vain may Mahler try to defend the sanctuaryof his mind; it is violated by foreign ideas coming from all parts, andinstead of being able to drive them away, his conscience, as conductorof the orchestra, obliges him to receive them and almost embrace them. With his feverish activity, and burdened as he is with heavy tasks, heworks unceasingly and has no time to dream. Mahler will only be Mahlerwhen he is able to leave his administrative work, shut up his scores, retire within himself, and wait patiently until he has become himselfagain--if it is not too late. 

His _Fifth Symphony_, which he conducted at Strasburg, convinced me, more than all his other works, of the urgent necessity of adopting thiscourse. In this composition he has not allowed himself the use of thechoruses, which were one of the chief attractions of his precedingsymphonies. He wished to prove that he could write pure music, and tomake his claim surer he refused to have any explanation of hiscomposition published in the concert programme, as the other composersin the festival had done; he wished it, therefore, to be judged from astrictly musical point of view. It was a dangerous ordeal for him. 

Though I wished very much to admire the work of a composer whom I heldin such esteem, I felt it did not come out very well from the test. Tobegin with, this symphony is excessively long--it lasts an hour and ahalf--though there is no apparent justification for its proportions. Itaims at being colossal, and mainly achieves emptiness. The _motifs_ aremore than familiar. After a funeral march of commonplace character andboisterous movement, where Beethoven seems to be taking lessons fromMendelssohn, there comes a scherzo, or rather a Viennese waltz, whereChabrier gives old Bach a helping hand. The adagietto has a rather sweetsentimentality. The rondo at the end is presented rather like an idea ofFranck's, and is the best part of the composition; it is carried out ina spirit of mad intoxication and a chorale rises up from it withcrashing joy; but the effect of the whole is lost in repetitions thatchoke it and make it heavy. Through all the work runs a mixture ofpedantic stiffness and incoherence; it moves along in a desultory way, and suffers from abrupt checks in the course of its development and fromsuperfluous ideas that break in for no reason at all, with the resultthat the whole hangs fire. 

Above all, I fear Mahler has been sadly hypnotised by ideas aboutpower--ideas that are getting to the head of all German artists to-day. He seems to have an undecided mind, and to combine sadness and ironywith weakness and impatience, to be a Viennese musician striving afterWagnerian grandeur. No one expresses the grace of _Ländler_ and daintywaltzes and mournful reveries better than he; and perhaps no one isnearer the secret of Schubert's moving and voluptuous melancholy; and itis Schubert he recalls at times, both in his good qualities and certainof his faults. But he wants to be Beethoven or Wagner. And he is wrong;for he lacks their balance and gigantic force. One saw that only toowell when he was conducting the _Choral Symphony_. 

But whatever he may be, or whatever disappointment he may have broughtme at Strasburg, I will never allow myself to speak lightly orscoffingly of him. I am confident that a musician with so lofty an aimwill one day create a work worthy of himself. 

 * * * * *

Richard Strauss is a complete contrast to Mahler. He has always the airof a heedless and discontented child. Tall and slim, rather elegant andsupercilious, he seems to be of a more refined race than most otherGerman artists of to-day. Scornful, _blasé_ with success, and veryexacting, his bearing towards other musicians has nothing of Mahler'swinning modesty. He is not less nervous than Mahler, and while he isconducting the orchestra he seems to indulge in a frenzied dance whichfollows the smallest details of his music--music that is as agitated aslimpid water into which a stone has been flung. But he has a greatadvantage over Mahler; he knows how to rest after his labours. Bothexcitable and sleepy by nature, his highly-strung nerves arecounterbalanced by his indolence, and there is in the depths of him aBavarian love of luxury. I am quite sure that when his hours of intenseliving are over, after he has spent an excessive amount of energy, hehas hours when he is only partially alive. One then sees his eyes with avague and sleepy look in them; and he is like old Rameau, who used towalk about for hours as if he were an automaton, seeing nothing andthinking of nothing. 

At Strasburg Strauss conducted his _Sinfonia Domestica_, whose programmeseems boldly to defy reason, and even good taste. In the symphony hepictures himself with his wife and his boy (_"Meiner lieben Frau undunserm Jungen gewidmet"_). "I do not see, " said Strauss, "why I shouldnot compose a symphony about myself; I find myself quite as interestingas Napoleon or Alexander. " Some people have replied that everybody elsemight not share his interest. But I shall not use that argument; it isquite possible for an artist of Strauss's worth to keep us entertained. What grates upon me more is the way in which he speaks of himself. Thedisproportion between his subject and the means he has of expressing itis too strong. Above all, I do not like this display of the inner andsecret self. There is a want of reticence in this _Sinfonia Domestica_. The fireside, the sitting-room, and the bedchamber, are open toall-comers. Is this the family feeling of Germany to-day? I admit thatthe first time I heard the work it jarred upon me for purely moralreasons, in spite of the liking I have for its composer. But afterwardsI altered my first opinion, and found the music admirable. Do you knowthe programme?

The first part shows you three people: a man, a woman, and a child. Theman is represented by three themes: a _motif_ full of spirit and humour, a thoughtful _motif_, and a _motif_ expressing eager and enthusiasticaction. The woman has only two themes: one expressing caprice, and theother love and tenderness. The child has a single _motif_, which isquiet, innocent, and not very defined in character; its real value isnot shown until it is developed. .. . Which of the two parents is he like?The family sit round him and discuss him. "He is just like his father"(_Ganz der Papa_), say the aunts. "He is the image of his mother" (_Ganzdie Mama_), say the uncles. 

The second part of the symphony is a scherzo which represents the childat play; there are terribly noisy games, games of Herculean gaiety, andyou can hear the parents talking all over the house. How far we seemfrom Schumann's good little children and their simple-hearted families!At last the child is put to bed; they rock him to sleep, and the clockstrikes seven. Night comes. There are dreams and some uneasy sleep. Thena love scene. .. . The clock strikes seven in the morning. Everybody wakesup, and there is a merry discussion. We hear a double fugue in which thetheme of the man and the theme of the woman contradict each other withexasperating and ludicrous obstinacy; and the man has the last word. Finally there is the apotheosis of the child and family life. 

Such a programme serves rather to lead the listener astray than to guidehim. It spoils the idea of the work by emphasising its anecdotal andrather comic side. For without doubt the comic side is there, andStrauss has warned us in vain that he did not wish to make an amusingpicture of married life, but to praise the sacredness of marriage andparenthood; but he possesses such a strong vein of humour that it cannothelp getting the better of him. There is nothing really grave orreligious about the music, except when he is speaking of the child; andthen the rough merriment of the man grows gentle, and the irritatingcoquetry of the woman becomes exquisitely tender. Otherwise Strauss'ssatire and love of jesting get the upper hand, and reach an almost epicgaiety and strength. 

But one must forget this unwise programme, which borders on bad tasteand at times on something even worse. When one has succeeded inforgetting it one discovers a well-proportioned symphony in fourparts--Allegro, Scherzo, Adagio, and Finale in fugue form--and one ofthe finest works in contemporary music. It has the passionateexuberance of Strauss's preceding symphony, _Heldenleben_, but it issuperior in artistic construction; one may even say that it is Strauss'smost perfect work since _Tod und Verklärung_ ("Death andTransfiguration"), with a richness of colouring and technical skill that_Tod und Verklärung_ did not possess. One is dazzled by the beauty of anorchestration which is light and pliant, and capable of expressingdelicate shades of feeling; and this struck me the more after the solidmassiveness of Mahler's orchestration, which is like heavy unleavenedbread. With Strauss everything is full of life and sinew, and there isnothing wasted. Possibly the first setting-out of his themes has rathertoo schematic a character; and perhaps the melodic utterance is ratherrestricted and not very lofty; but it is very personal, and one finds itimpossible to disassociate his personality from these vigorous themesthat burn with youthful ardour, and cut the air like arrows, and twistthemselves in freakish arabesques. In the adagio depicting night, thereis, though in very bad taste, much seriousness and reverie and stirringemotion. The fugue at the end is of astonishing sprightliness; and is amixture of colossal jesting and heroic pastoral poetry worthy ofBeethoven, whose style it recalls in the breadth of its development. Thefinal apotheosis is filled with life; its joy makes the heart beat. Themost extravagant harmonic effects and the most abominable discords aresoftened and almost disappear in the wonderful combination of _timbres_. It is the work of a strong and sensual artist, the true heir of theWagner of the _Meistersinger_. 

 * * * * *

Upon the whole, these works make one see that, in spite of theirapparent audacity, Strauss and Mahler are beginning to make asurreptitious retreat from their early standpoint, and are abandoningthe symphony with a programme. Strauss's last work will lose nothing bycalling itself quite simply _Sinfonia Domestica_, without adding anyfurther information. It is a true symphony; and the same may be said ofMahler's composition. But Strauss and Mahler are already reformingthemselves, and are coming back to the model of the classic symphony. 

But there are more important conclusions to be drawn from a hearing ofthis kind. The first is that Strauss's talent is becoming more and moreexceptional in the music of his country. With all his faults, which areconsiderable, Strauss stands alone in his warmth of imagination, in hisunquenchable spontaneity and perpetual youth. And his knowledge and hisart are growing every day in the midst of other German art which isgrowing old. German music in general is showing some grave symptoms. Iwill not dwell on its neurasthenia, for it is passing through a crisiswhich will teach it wisdom; but I fear, nevertheless, that thisexcessive nervous excitement will be followed by torpor. What is reallydisquieting is that, in spite of all the talent that still abounds, Germany is fast losing her chief musical endowments. Her melodic charmhas nearly disappeared. One could search the music of Strauss, Mahler, or Hugo Wolf, without finding a melody of any real value, or of any trueoriginality, outside its application to a text, or a literary idea, andits harmonic development. And besides that, German music is daily losingits intimate spirit; there are still traces of this spirit in Wolf, thanks to his exceptionally unhappy life; but there is very little of itin Mahler, in spite of all his efforts to concentrate his mind onhimself; and there is hardly any at all in Strauss, although he is themost interesting of the three composers. German musicians have no longerany depth. 

I have said that I attribute this fact to the detestable influence ofthe theatre, to which nearly all these artists are attached as_Kapellmeister_, or directors of opera. To this they owe themelodramatic character of their music, even though it is on the surfaceonly--music written for show, and aiming chiefly at effect. 

More baneful even than the influence of the theatre is the influence ofsuccess. These musicians have nowadays too many facilities for havingtheir music played. A work is played almost before it is finished, andthe musician has no time to live with his work in solitude and silence. Besides this, the works of the chief German musicians are supported bytremendous booming of some kind or another: by their _Musikfeste_, bytheir critics, their press, and their "Musical Guides" (_Musikführer_), which are apologetic explanations of their works, scattered abroad inmillions to set the fashion for the sheep-like public. And with all thisa musician grows soon contented with himself, and comes to believe anyfavourable opinion about his work. What a difference from Beethoven, who, all his life, was hammering out the same subjects, and putting hismelodies on the anvil twenty times before they reached their final form. That is where Mahler is so lacking. His subjects are a rather vulgarisededition of some of Beethoven's ideas in their unfinished state. ButMahler gets no further than the rough sketch. 

And, lastly, I want to speak of the greatest danger of all that menacesmusic in Germany; _there is too much music in Germany_. This is not aparadox. There is no worse misfortune for art than a super-abundance ofit. The music is drowning the musicians. Festival succeeds festival: theday after the Strasburg festival there was to be a Bach festival atEisenach; and then, at the end of the week, a Beethoven festival atBonn. Such a plethora of concerts, theatres, choral societies, andchamber-music societies, absorbs the whole life of the musician. Whenhas he time to be alone to listen to the music that sings within him?This senseless flood of music invades the sanctuaries of his soul, weakens its power, and destroys its sacred solitude and the treasures ofits thought. 

You must not think that this excess of music existed in the old days inGermany. In the time of the great classic masters, Germany had hardlyany institutions for the giving of regular concerts, and choralperformances were hardly known. In the Vienna of Mozart and Beethoventhere was only a single association that gave concerts, and no_Chorvereine_ at all, and it was the same with other towns in Germany. Does the wonderful spread of musical culture in Germany during the lastcentury correspond with its artistic creation? I do not think so; andone feels the inequality between the two more every day. 

Do you remember Goethe's ballad of _Der Zauberlehrling_ (_L'ApprentiSorcier_) which Dukas so cleverly made into music? There, in the absenceof his master, an apprentice set working some magic spells, and soopened sluice-gates that no one could shut; and the house was flooded. 

This is what Germany has done. She has let loose a flood of music, andis about to be drowned in it. 

CLAUDE DEBUSSY

PELLÉAS ET MÉLISANDE

The first performance of _Pelléas et Mélisande_ in Paris, on April 30th, 1902, was a very notable event in the history of French music; itsimportance can only be compared with that of the first performance ofLully's _Cadmus et Hermione_, Rameau's _Hippolyte et Aricie_, andQuick's _Iphigénie en Aulide_; and it may be looked upon as one of thethree or four red-letter days in the calendar of our lyric stage. [199]

[Footnote 199: May I be allowed to say that I am trying to write thisstudy from a purely historical point of view, by eliminating allpersonal feeling--which would be of no value here. As a matter of fact, I am not a Debussyite; my sympathies are with quite another kind of art. But I feel impelled to give homage to a great artist, whose work I amable to judge with some impartiality. ]

The success of _Pelléas et Mélisande_ is due to many things. Some ofthem are trivial, such as fashion, which has certainly played its parthere as it has in all other successes, though it is a relatively weakpart; some of them are more important, and arise from something innatein the spirit of French genius; and there are also moral and aestheticreasons for its success, and, in the widest sense, purely musicalreasons. 

 * * * * *

In speaking of the moral reasons of the success of _Pelléas etMélisande_, I would like to draw your attention to a form of thoughtwhich is not confined to France, but which is common nowadays in asection of the more distinguished members of European society, and whichhas found expression in _Pelléas et Mélisande_. The atmosphere in whichMaeterlinck's drama moves makes one feel the melancholy resignation ofthe will to Fate. We are shown that nothing can change the order ofevents; that, despite our proud illusions, we are not master ofourselves, but the servant of unknown and irresistible forces, whichdirect the whole tragicomedy of our lives. We are told that no man isresponsible for what he likes and what he loves--that is if he knowswhat he likes and loves--and that he lives and dies without knowing why. 

These fatalistic ideas, reflecting the lassitude of the intellectualaristocracy of Europe, have been wonderfully translated into music byDebussy; and when you feel the poetic and sensual charm of the music, the ideas become fascinating and intoxicating, and their spirit is veryinfectious. For there is in all music an hypnotic power which is able toreduce the mind to a state of voluptuous submission. 

The cause of the artistic success of _Pelléas et Mélisande_ is of a morespecially French character, and marks a reaction that is at oncelegitimate, natural, and inevitable; I would even say it is vital--areaction of French genius against foreign art, and especially againstWagnerian art and its awkward representatives in France. 

Is the Wagnerian drama perfectly adapted to German genius? I do notthink so; but that is a question which I will leave German musicians todecide. For ourselves, we have the right to assert that the form ofWagnerian drama is antipathetic to the spirit of French people--to theirartistic taste, to their ideas about the theatre, and to their musicalfeeling. This form may have forced itself upon us, and, by the right ofvictorious genius, may have strongly influenced the French mind, and maydo so again; but nothing will ever make it anything but a stranger inour land. 

It is not necessary to dwell upon the differences of taste. TheWagnerian ideal is, before everything else, an ideal of power. Wagner'spassional and intellectual exaltation and his mystic sensualism arepoured out like a fiery torrent, which sweeps away and burns all beforeit, taking no heed of barriers. Such an art cannot be bound by ordinaryrules; it has no need to fear bad taste--and I commend it. But it iseasy to understand that other ideals exist, and that another art mightbe as expressive by its proprieties and niceties as by its richness andforce. And this former art--our own--is not so much a reaction againstWagnerian art as a reaction against its caricatures in France and theconsequent abuse of an ill-regulated power. 

Genius has a right to be what it will--to trample underfoot, if itwishes, taste and morals and the whole of society. But when those whoare not geniuses wish to do the same thing they only make themselvesridiculous and odious. There have been too many monkey Wagners inFrance. During the last ten or twenty years scarcely one French musicianhas escaped Wagner's influence. One understands only too well the revoltof the French mind, in the name of naturalness and good taste, againstexaggerations and extremes of passion, whether sincere or not. _Pelléaset Mélisande_ came as a manifestation of this revolt. It is anuncompromising reaction against over-emphasis and excess, and againstanything that oversteps the limits of the imagination. This distaste ofexaggerated words and sentiments results in what is like a fear ofshowing the feelings at all, even when they are most deeply stirred. With Debussy the passions almost whisper; and it is by the imperceptiblevibrations of the melodic line that the love in the hearts of theunhappy couple is shown, by the timid "Oh, why are you going?" at theend of the first act, and the quiet "I love you, too, " in the last scenebut one. Think of the wild lamentations of the dying Ysolde, and then ofthe death of Mélisande, without cries and without words. 

From a scenic point of view, _Pelléas et Mélisande_ is also quiteopposed to the Bayreuth ideal. The vast proportions--almost immoderateproportions--of the Wagnerian drama, its compact structure and theintense concentration of mind which from beginning to end holds theseenormous works and their ideology together, and which is often displayedat the expense of the action and even the emotions, are as far removedas they can be from the French love of clear, logical, and temperateaction. The little pictures of _Pelléas et Mélisande_, small andsharply cut, each marking without stress a new stage in the evolution ofthe drama, are built up in quite a different way from those of theWagnerian theatre. 

And, as if he wished to accentuate this antagonism, the author of_Pelléas et Mélisande_ is now writing a _Tristan_, whose plot is takenfrom an old French poem, the text of which has been recently brought tolight by M. Bédier. In its calm and lofty strain it is a wonderfulcontrast to Wagner's savage and pedantic, though sublime poem. 

But it is especially by the manner in which they conceive the respectiverelationships of poetry and music to opera that the two composersdiffer. With Wagner, music is the kernel of the opera, the glowingfocus, the centre of attraction; it absorbs everything, and it standsabsolutely first. But that is not the French conception. The musicalstage, as we conceive it in France (if not what we actually possess), should present such a combination of the arts as go to make anharmonious whole. We demand that an equal balance shall be kept betweenpoetry and music; and if their equilibrium must be a little upset, weshould prefer that poetry was not the loser, as its utterance is moreconscious and rational. That was Gluck's aim; and because he realised itso well he gained a reputation among the French public which nothingwill destroy. Debussy's strength lies in the methods by which he hasapproached this ideal of musical temperateness and disinterestedness, and in the way he has placed his genius as a composer at the service ofthe drama. He has never sought to dominate Maeterlinck's poem, or toswallow it up in a torrent of music; he has made it so much a part ofhimself that at the present time no Frenchman is able to think of apassage in the play without Debussy's music singing at the same timewithin him. 

But apart from all these reasons that make the work important in thehistory of opera, there are purely musical reasons for its success, which are of deeper significance still. [200] _Pelléas et Mélisande_ hasbrought about a reform in the dramatic music of France. This reform isconcerned with several things, and, first of all, with recitative. 

[Footnote 200: That is for musicians. But I am convinced that with themass of the public the other reasons have more weight--as is always thecase. ]

In France we have never had--apart from a few attempts in_opéra-comique_--a recitative that exactly expressed our natural speech. Lully and Rameau took for their model the high-flown declamation of thetragedy stage of their time. And French opera for the past twenty yearshas chosen a more dangerous model still--the declamation of Wagner, withits vocal leaps and its resounding and heavy accentuation. Nothing couldbe more displeasing in French. All people of taste suffered from it, though they did not admit it. At this time, Antoine, Gémier, and Guitrywere making theatrical declamation more natural, and this made theexaggerated declamation of the French opera appear more ridiculous andmore archaic still. And so a reform in recitative was inevitable. Jean-Jacques Rousseau had foreseen it in the very direction in whichDebussy[201] has accomplished it. He showed in his _Lettre sur lamusique française_ that there was no connection between the inflectionsof French speech, "whose accents are so harmonious and simple, " and "theshrill and noisy intonations" of the recitative of French opera. And heconcluded by saying that the kind of recitative that would best suit usshould "wander between little intervals, and neither raise nor lower thevoice very much; and should have little sustained sound, no noise, andno cries of any description--nothing, indeed, that resembled singing, and little inequality in the duration or value of the notes, or in theirintervals. " This is the very definition of Debussy's recitative. 

[Footnote 201: We must also note that during the first half of theseventeenth century people of taste objected to the very theatricaldeclamation of French opera. "Our singers believe, " wrote Mersenne, in1636, "that the exclamations and emphasis used by the Italians insinging savour too much of tragedies and comedies, and so they do notwish to employ them. "]

The symphonic fabric of _Pelléas et Mélisande_ differs just as widelyfrom Wagner's dramas. With Wagner it is a living thing that springs fromone great root, a system of interlaced phrases whose powerful growthputs out branches in every direction, like an oak. Or, to take anothersimile, it is like a painting, which though it has not been executed ata single sitting, yet gives us that impression; and, in spite of theretouching and altering to which it has been subjected, still has theeffect of a compact whole, of an indestructible amalgam, from whichnothing can be detached. Debussy's system, on the contrary, is, so tospeak, a sort of classic impressionism--an impressionism that isrefined, harmonious, and calm; that moves along in musical pictures, each of which corresponds to a subtle and fleeting moment of the soul'slife; and the painting is done by clever little strokes put in with asoft and delicate touch. This art is more allied to that of Moussorgski(though without any of his roughness) than that of Wagner, in spite ofone or two reminiscences of _Parsifal_, which are only extraneous traitsin the work. In _Pelléas et Mélisande_ one finds no persistent_leitmotifs_ running through the work, or themes which pretend totranslate into music the life of characters and types; but, instead, wehave phrases that express changing feelings, that change with thefeelings. More than that, Debussy's harmony is not, as it was withWagner and all the German school, a fettered harmony, tightly bound tothe despotic laws of counterpoint; it is, as Laloy[202] has said, aharmony that is first of all harmonious, and has its origin and end initself. 

[Footnote 202: No other critic has, I think, discerned so shrewdlyDebussy's art and genius. Some of his analyses are models of cleverintuition. The thought of the critic seems to be one with that of themusician. ]

As Debussy's art only attempts to give the impression of the moment, without troubling itself with what may come after, it is free from care, and takes its fill in the enjoyment of the moment. In the garden ofharmonies it selects the most beautiful flowers; for sincerity ofexpression takes a second place with it, and its first idea is toplease. In this again it interprets the aesthetic sensualism of theFrench race, which seeks pleasure in art, and does not willingly admitugliness, even when it seems to be justified by the needs of the dramaand of truth. Mozart shared the same thought: "Music, " he said, "even inthe most terrible situations, ought never to offend the ear; it shouldcharm it even there; and, in short, always remain music. "

As for Debussy's harmonic language, his originality does not consist, assome of his foolish admirers have said, in the invention of new chords, but in the new use he makes of them. A man is not a great artist becausehe makes use of unresolved sevenths and ninths, consecutive major thirdsand ninths, and harmonic progressions based on a scale of whole tones;one is only an artist when one makes them say something. And it is noton account of the peculiarities of Debussy's style--of which one mayfind isolated examples in great composers before him, in Chopin, Liszt, Chabrier, and Richard Strauss--but because with Debussy thesepeculiarities are an expression of his personality, and because _Pelléaset Mélisande_, "the land of ninths, " has a poetic atmosphere which islike no other musical drama ever written. 

Lastly, the orchestration is purposely restrained, light, and divided, for Debussy has a fine disdain for those orgies of sound to whichWagner's art has accustomed us; it is as sober and polished as a fineclassic phrase of the latter part of the seventeenth century. _Ne quidnimis_ ("Nothing superfluous") is the artist's motto. Instead ofamalgamating the _timbres_ to get a massive effect, he disengages theirseparate personalities, as it were, and delicately blends them withoutchanging their individual nature. Like the impressionist painters ofto-day, he paints with primary colours, but with a delicate moderationthat rejects anything harsh as if it were something unseemly. 

 * * * * *

I have given more than enough reasons to account for the success of_Pelléas et Mélisande_ and the place that its admirers give it in thehistory of opera. There is every reason to believe that the composer hasnot been as acutely conscious of his musico-dramatic reform as hisdisciples have been. The reform with him has a more instinctivecharacter; and that is what gives it its strength. It responds to anunconscious yet profound need of the French spirit. I would even ventureto say that the historical importance of Debussy's work is greater thanits artistic value. His personality is not without faults, and thegravest are perhaps negative faults--the absence of certain qualities, and even of the strong and extravagant faults which made the heroes ofthe art world, like Beethoven and Wagner. His voluptuous nature is atonce changeable and precise; and his dreams are as clear and delicate asthe art of a poet of the Pleiades in the sixteenth century, or of aJapanese painter. But among all his gifts he has a quality which I havenot found so evident in any other musician--except perhaps Mozart; andthis quality is a genius for good taste. Debussy has it in excess, sothat he almost sacrifices the other elements of art to it, until thepassionate force of his music, even its very life, seems to beimpoverished. But one must not deceive oneself; that impoverishment isonly apparent, and in all his work there are evidences that his passionis only veiled. It is only the trembling of the melodic line, or theorchestration which, like a shadow passing before the eyes, tells us ofthe drama that is being played in the hearts of his characters. Thislofty shame of emotion is something as rare in opera as a Racine tragedyis in poetry--they are works of the same order, and both of them perfectflowers of the French spirit. Anyone who lives in foreign parts and iscurious to know what France is like and understand her genius shouldstudy _Pelléas et Mélisande_ as they would study Racine's _Bérénice_. 

Not that Debussy's art entirely represents French genius any more thanRacine's does; for there is quite another side to it which is notrepresented there; and that side is heroic action, the intoxication ofreason and laughter, the passion for light, the France of Rabelais, Molière, Diderot, and in music, we will say--for want of betternames--the France of Berlioz and Bizet. To tell the truth, that is theFrance I prefer. But Heaven preserve me from ignoring the other! It isthe balance between these two Frances that makes French genius. In ourcontemporary music, _Pelléas et Mélisande_ is at one end of the pole ofour art and _Carmen_ is at the other. The one is all on the surface, alllife, with no shadows, and no underneath. The other is below thesurface, bathed in twilight, and enveloped in silence. And this doubleideal is the alternation between the gentle sunlight and the faint mistthat veils the soft, luminous sky of the Isle of France. 

[Illustration]

THE AWAKENING

A SKETCH OF THE MUSICAL MOVEMENT IN PARIS SINCE 1870

It is not possible in a few pages to give an account of forty years ofactive and fruitful life without many omissions, and also without acertain dryness entailed by lists of names. But I have purposelyabstained from trying to arouse interest by any artifices of writing andtreatment, as I wish to let deeds speak for themselves. 

I want to show, by this simple account, the splendid efforts made bymusicians in France since 1870, and the growth of the faith and energythat has recreated French music. Such an awakening seems to me a finething to look upon, and very comforting. But few people in Francerealise it, outside a handful of musicians. It is to the public at largeI dedicate these pages, so that they may know what a generation ofartists with large hearts and strong determination have done for thehonour of our race. The nation must not be allowed to forget what sheowes to some of her sons. 

But you must not accuse me of contradicting myself if in another work, which will appear at the same time as this one, [203] I indulge in somesarcasm over the failings and absurdities of French music to-day. Ithink that for the last ten years French musicians have ratherimprudently and prematurely proclaimed their victory, and that, in ageneral way, their works--apart from three or four--are not worth asmuch as their endeavours. But their endeavours are heroic; and I knownothing finer in the whole history of France. May they continue! Butthat is only possible by practising a virtue--modesty. The completion ofa part is not the completion of the whole. 

[Footnote 203: _Jean-Christophe à Paris_, 1904. ]

PARIS AND MUSIC

The nature of Paris is so complex and unstable that one feels it ispresumptuous to try to define it. It is a city so highly-strung, soingrained with fickleness, and so changeable in its tastes, that a bookthat truly describes it at the moment it is written is no longeraccurate by the time it is published. And then, there is not only oneParis; there are two or three Parises--fashionable Paris, middle-classParis, intellectual Paris, vulgar Paris--all living side by side, butintermingling very little. If you do not know the little towns withinthe great Town, you cannot know the strong and often inconsistent lifeof this great organism as a whole. 

If one wishes to get an idea of the musical life of Paris, one must takeinto account the variety of its centres and the perpetual flow of itsthought--a thought which never stops, but is always over-shooting thegoal for which it seemed bound. This incessant change of opinion isscornfully called "fashion" by the foreigner. And there is, withoutdoubt, in the artistic aristocracy of Paris, as in all great towns, aherd of idle people on the watch for new fashions--in art, as well as indress--who wish to single out certain of them for no serious reason atall. But, in spite of their pretensions, they have only an infinitesimalshare in the changes of artistic taste. The origin of these changes isin the Parisian brain itself--a brain that is quick and feverish, alwaysworking, greedy of knowledge, easily tired, grasping to-day thesplendours of a work, seeing to-morrow its defects, building upreputations as rapidly as it pulls them down, and yet, in spite of allits apparent caprices, always logical and sincere. It has its momentaryinfatuations and dislikes, but no lasting prejudices; and, by itscuriosity, its absolute liberty, and its very French habit ofcriticising everything, it is a marvellous barometer, sensitive to allthe hidden currents of thought in the soul of the West, and oftenindicating, months in advance, the variations and disturbances of theartistic and political world. 

And this barometer is registering what is happening just now in theworld of music, where a movement has been making itself felt in Francefor several years, whose effect other nations--perhaps more musicalnations--will not feel till later. For the nations that have thestrongest artistic traditions are not necessarily those that are likelyto develop a new art. To do that one must have a virgin soil and spiritsuntrammelled by a heritage from the past. In 1870 no one had a lighterheritage to bear than French musicians; for the past had been forgotten, and such a thing as real musical education did not exist. 

The musical weakness of that time was a very curious thing, and hasgiven many people the impression that France has never been a musicalnation. Historically speaking, nothing could be more wrong. Certainlythere are races more gifted in music than others; but often the seemingdifferences of race are really the differences of time; and a nationappears great or little in its art according to what period of itshistory we consider. England was a musical nation until the Revolutionof 1688; France was the greatest musical nation in the sixteenthcentury; and the recent publications of M. Henry Expert have given us aglimpse of the originality and perfection of the Franco-Belgian artduring the Renaissance. But without going back as far as that, we findthat Paris was a very musical town at the time of the Restoration, atthe time of the first performance of Beethoven's symphonies at theConservatoire, and the first great works of Berlioz, and the ItalianOpera. In Berlioz's _Mémoires_ you can read about the enthusiasm, thetears, and the feeling, that the performances of Gluck's and Spontini'soperas aroused; and in the same book one sees clearly that this musicalwarmth lasted until 1840, after which it died down little by little, andwas succeeded by complete musical apathy in the second Empire--an apathyfrom which Berlioz suffered cruelly, so that one may even say he diedcrushed by the indifference of the public. At this time Meyerbeer wasreigning at the Opera. This incredible weakening of musical feeling inFrance, from 1840 to 1870, is nowhere better shown than in its romanticand realistic writers, for whom music was an hermetically sealed door. All these artists were "_visuels_, " for whom music was only a noise. Hugo is supposed to have said that Germany's inferiority was measured byits superiority in music. [204] "The elder Dumas detested, " Berlioz says, "even bad music. "[205] The journal of the Goncourts calmly reflects thealmost universal scorn of literary men for music. In a conversationwhich took place in 1862 between Goncourt and Théophile Gautier, Goncourt said:

"We confessed to him our complete infirmity, our musical deafness--wewho, at the most, only liked military music. "

[Footnote 204: One must at least do Hugo the justice of saying that healways spoke of Beethoven with admiration, although he did not know him. But he rather exalts him in order to take away from the importance of apoet--the only one in the nineteenth century--whose fame was shading hisown; and when he wrote in his _William Shakespeare_ that "the great manof Germany is Beethoven" it was understood by all to mean "the great manof Germany is not Goethe. "]

[Footnote 205: Written in a letter to his sister, Nanci, on 3 April, 1850. ]

 "Well, " said Gautier, "what you tell me pleases me very much. I am like you; I prefer silence to music. I have only just succeeded, after having lived part of my life with a singer, in being able to tell good music from bad; but it is all the same to me. "[206]

And he added:

 "But it is a very curious thing that all other writers of our time are like this. Balzac hated music. Hugo could not stand it. Even Lamartine, who himself is like a piano to be hired or sold, holds it in horror!"

It needed a complete upheaval of the nation--a political and moralupheaval--to change that frame of mind. Some indication of the changewas making itself felt in the last years of the second Empire. Wagner, who suffered from the hostility or indifference of the public in 1860, at the time when _Tannhäuser_ was performed at the Opera, had alreadyfound, however, a few understanding people in Paris who discerned hisgenius and sincerely admired him. The most interesting of the writerswho first began to understand musical emotion is Charles Baudelaire. In1861, Pasdeloup gave the first _Concerts populaires de musiqueclassique_ at the Cirque d'Hiver. The Berlioz Festival, organised by M. Reyer, on March 23rd, 1870, a year after Berlioz's death, revealed toFrance the grandeur of its greatest musical genius, and was thebeginning of a campaign of public reparation to his memory. 

[Footnote 206: We remark, nevertheless, that that did not preventGautier from being a musical critic. ]

The disasters of the war in 1870 regenerated the nation's artisticspirit. Music felt its effect immediately. [207] On February 24th, 1871, the _Société nationale de Musique_ was instituted to propagate the worksof French composers; and in 1873 the _Concerts de l'Associationartistique_ were started under M. Colonne's direction; and theseconcerts, besides making people acquainted with the classic composers ofsymphonies and the masters of the young French school, were especiallydevoted to the honouring of Berlioz, whose triumph reached its summitabout 1880. [208]

[Footnote 207: I wish to make known from the beginning that I am onlynoticing here the greater musical doings of the nation, and making nomention of works which have not had an important influence on thismovement. ]

[Footnote 208: In the meanwhile France saw the brilliant rise andextinction of a great artist--the most spontaneous of all hermusicians--Georges Bizet, who died in 1875, aged thirty-seven. "Bizetwas the last genius to discover a new beauty, " said Nietzsche; "Bizetdiscovered new lands--the Southern lands of music, " _Carmen_ (1875) and_L'Arlésienne_ (1872) are masterpieces of the lyrical Latin drama. Theirstyle is luminous, concise, and well-defined; the figures are outlinedwith incisive precision. The music is full of light and movement, and isa great contrast to Wagner's philosophical symphonies, and its popularsubject only serves to strengthen its aristocratic distinction. By itsnature and its clear perception of the spirit of the race it was well inadvance of its time. What a place Bizet might have taken in our art ifhe had only lived twenty years longer!]

At this time Wagner's success, in its turn, began to make itself felt. For this M. Lamoureux, whose concerts began in 1882, was chieflyresponsible. Wagner's influence considerably helped forward the progressof French art, and aroused a love for music in people other thanmusicians; and, by his all-embracing personality and the vast domain ofhis work in art, not only engaged the interest of the musical world, butthat of the theatrical world, and the world of poetry and the plasticarts. One may say that from 1885 Wagner's work acted directly orindirectly on the whole of artistic thought, even on the religious andintellectual thought of the most distinguished people in Paris. And acurious historical witness of its world-wide influence and momentarysupremacy over all other arts was the founding of the _RevueWagnérienne_, where, united by the same artistic devotion, were foundwriters and poets such as Verlaine, Mallarmé, Swinburne, Villiers del'Isle Adam, Huysmans, Richepin, Catulle Mendès, Édouard Rod, StuartMerrill, Ephraim Mikhaël, etc. , and painters like Fantin-Latour, JacquesBlanche, Odilon Redon; and critics like Teodor de Wyzewa, H. S. Chamberlain, Hennequin, Camille Benoît, A. Ernst, de Fourcaud, Wilder, E. Schuré, Soubies, Malherbe, Gabriel Mourey, etc. These writers notonly discussed musical subjects, but judged painting, literature, andphilosophy, from a Wagnerian point of view. Hennequin compared thephilosophic systems of Herbert Spencer and Wagner. Teodor de Wyzewa madea study of Wagnerian literature--not the literature that commentated andthe paintings that illustrated Wagner's works, but the literature andthe painting that were inspired by Wagner's principles--from Egyptianstatuary to Degas's paintings, from Homer's writings to those ofVilliers de l'Isle Adam! In a word, the whole universe was seen andjudged by the thought of Bayreuth. And though this folly scarcely lastedmore than three or four years--the length of the life of that littlemagazine--Wagner's genius dominated nearly the whole of French art forten or twelve years. [209] An ardent musical propaganda by means ofconcerts was carried on among the public; and the young intellectuals ofthe day were won over. But the finest service that Wagnerism rendered toFrench art was that it interested the general public in music; althoughthe tyranny its influence exercised became, in time, very stifling. 

[Footnote 209: Its influence is shown, in varying degrees, in works suchas M. Reyer's _Sigurd_ (1884), Chabrier's _Gwendoline_ (1886), and M. Vincent d'Indy's _Le Chant de la Cloche_ (1886). ]

Then, in 1890, there were signs of a movement that was in revolt againstits despotism. The great wind from the East began to drop, and veered tothe North. Scandinavian and Russian influences were making themselvesfelt. An exaggerated infatuation for Grieg, though limited to a smallnumber of people, was an indication of the change in public taste. In1890, César Franck died in Paris. Belgian by birth and temperament, andFrench in feeling and by musical education, he had remained outside theWagnerian movement in his own serene and fecund solitude. To hisintellectual greatness and the charm his personal genius held for thelittle band of friends who knew and revered him he added the authorityof his knowledge. Unconsciously he brought back to us the soul ofSebastian Bach, with its infinite richness and depth; and through thishe found himself the head of a school (without having wished it) and thegreatest teacher of contemporary French music. After his death, hisname was the means of rallying together the younger school ofmusicians. In 1892, the _Chanteurs de Saint-Gervais_, under thedirection of M. Charles Bordes, reinstated to honour and popularisedGregorian and Palestrinian music; and, following the initiative of theirdirector, the _Schola Cantorum_ was founded in 1894 for the revival ofreligious music. Ambition grew with success; and from the _Schola_sprang the _École Supérieure de Musique_, under the direction ofFranck's most famous pupil, M. Vincent d'Indy. This school, founded on asolid knowledge, not only of the classics, but of the primitives inmusic, took from its very beginning in 1900 a frankly nationalcharacter, and was in some ways opposed to German art. At the same time, performances of Bach and seventeenth-and eighteenth-century music becamemore and more frequent; and more intimate relationship with the artistsof other countries, repeated visits of the great _Kapellmeister_, foreign virtuosi and composers (especially Richard Strauss), and, lastly, of Russian composers, completed the education of the Parisianmusical public, who, after repeated rebukes from the critics, becameconscious of the awakening of a national personality, and of animpatient desire to free itself from German tutelage. By turns itgratefully and warmly received M. Bruneau's _Le Rêve_ (1891), M. D'Indy's _Fervaal_ (1898), M. Gustave Charpentier's _Louise_ (1900)--allof which seemed like works of liberation. But, as a matter of fact, these lyric dramas were by no means free from foreign influences, andespecially from Wagnerian influences. M. Debussy's _Pelléas etMélisande_, in 1902, seemed to mark more truly the emancipation ofFrench music. From this time on, French music felt that it had leftschool, and claimed to have founded a new art, which reflected thespirit of the race, and was freer and suppler than the Wagnerian art. These ideas, which were seized upon and enlarged by the press, broughtabout rather quickly a conviction in French artists of France'ssuperiority in music. Is that conviction justified? The future alone cantell us. But one may see by this brief outline of events how real is theevolution of the musical spirit in France since 1870, in spite of theapparent contradictions of fashion which appear on the surface of art. It is the spirit of France that is, after long oppression and by apatient but eager initiation, realising its power and wishing todominate in its turn. 

I wanted at first to trace the broad line of the movement which for thelast thirty years has been affecting French music; and now I shallconsider the musical institutions that have had their share in thismovement. You will not be surprised if I ignore some of the mostcelebrated, which have lost their interest in it, in order that I mayconsider those that are the true authors of our regeneration. 

MUSICAL INSTITUTIONS BEFORE 1870

It is not by any means the oldest and most celebrated musicalinstitutions which have taken the largest share in this evolution ofmusic in the last thirty years. 

The _Académie des Beaux-Arts_, where six chairs are reserved for themusical section, could have played a very important part in the musicalorganisation of France by the authority of its name, and by the manyprizes that it gives for composition and criticism, especially by the_Prix de Rome_, which it awards every year. But it does not play itspart well, partly because of the antiquated statutes that govern it, bywhich a handful of musicians are associated with a great number ofpainters, sculptors, and architects, who are ignorant of music and mockat the musicians, as they did in the time of Berlioz; and partly becauseit is the custom of the Academy that the little group of musicians shallbe trained in a very conservative way. One of the names of thesemusicians is justly celebrated--that of M. Saint-Saëns; but there areothers whose fame is of poorer quality, and others still who have nofame at all. And the whole forms a little group, which though it doesnot put any actual obstacles in the way of the progress of art, yet doesnot look upon it favourably, but remains rather apart in an indifferentor even hostile spirit. 

The _Conservatoire national de Musique et de Déclamation_, which datesfrom the last years of the _Ancien Régime_ and the Revolution, wasdesigned by its patriotic and-democratic origin to serve the cause ofnational art and free progress. [210]

[Footnote 210: One knows that the Conservatoire originated in _L'Écolegratuite de musique de la garde nationale parisienne_, founded in 1792by Sarrette, and directed by Gossec. It was then a civic and militaryschool, but, according to Chénier, was changed into the _Institutnational de musique_ on 8 November, 1793, and into the _Conservatoire_on 3 August, 1795. This Republican Conservatoire made it its business tokeep in contact with the spirit of the country, and was directly opposedto the Opera, which was of monarchical origin. See M. Constant Pierre'swork _Le Conservatoire national de musique_ (1900), and M. JulienTiersot's very interesting book _Les Fêtes et les Chants de laRévolution française_ (1908). ]

It was for a long time the corner-stone of the edifice of music inParis. But although it has always numbered in its ranks many illustriousand devoted professors--among whom it recognised, a little late, thefounder of the young French school, César Franck--and though themajority of artists who have made a name in French music have receivedits teaching, and the list of laureates of Rome who have come from itscomposition classes includes all the heads of the artistic movementto-day in all its diversity, and ranges from M. Massenet to M. Bruneau, and from M. Charpentier to M. Debussy--in spite of all this, it is nosecret that, since 1870, the official action with regard to the movementamounts to almost nothing; though we must at least do it justice, andsay that it has not hindered it. [211]

[Footnote 211: You must remember that I am speaking here of _official_action only; for there have always been masters among the Conservatoireteaching staff who have united a fine musical culture with abroad-minded and liberal spirit. But the influence of these independentminds is, generally speaking, small; for they have not the disposing ofacademic successes; and when, by exception, they have a wide influence, like that of César Franck, it is the result of personal work outside theConservatoire--work that is, as often as not, opposed to Conservatoireprinciples. ]

But if the spirit of this academy has often destroyed the effect of theexcellent teaching there, by making success in academic competitions thechief aim of the professors and their pupils, yet a certain freedom hasalways reigned in the institution. And though this freedom is mainly theresult of indifference, it has, however, permitted the more independenttemperaments to develop in peace--from Berlioz to M. Ravel. One shouldbe grateful for this. But such virtues are too negative to give theConservatoire a high place in the musical history of the Third Republic;and it is only lately, under the direction of M. Gabriel Fauré, that ithas endeavoured, not without difficulty, to get back its place at thehead of French art, which it had lost, and which others had taken. 

The _Société des Concerts du Conservatoire_, founded in 1828 under thedirection of Habeneck, has had its hour of glory in the musical historyof Paris. It was through this society that Beethoven's greatness wasrevealed to France. [212] It was at the Conservatoire that the earlyimportant works of Berlioz were first given: _La Fantastique_, _Harold_, and _Roméo et Juliette_. It was there, nearer our own time, thatSaint-Saëns's _Symphonie avec Orgue_ and César Franck's _Symphonie_ wereplayed for the first time. But for a long time the Conservatoire seemedto take its name too literally, and to restrict its sphere to that of amuseum for classical music. 

[Footnote 212: It is to be noted that since 1807 the Conservatoirepupils have made Beethoven's symphonies familiar to Parisians. The_Symphony in C minor_ was performed by them in 1808; the _Heroic_ in1811. It was in connection with one of these performances that the_Tablettes de Polymnie_ gave a curious appreciation of Beethoven, whichis quoted by M. Constant Pierre: "This composer is often grotesque anduncouth, and sometimes flies majestically like an eagle and sometimescrawls along stony paths. It is as though one had shut up doves andcrocodiles together. "]

In later years, however, the _Société des Concerts_, with M. Marty, began to consider new works. Its orchestra, composed of eminentinstrumentalists, enjoys a classical fame; though it is now no longeralone in the excellence of its performances, and has perhaps lost alittle the secret that it claimed to possess for the interpretation ofgreat classical works. It excels in works of a neo-classic character, like those of M. Saint-Saëns, which are stronger in style and taste thanin life and passion. The Conservatoire concerts have also a relativesuperiority over other concerts in Paris in the performance of choralworks, which up to the present have been very second-rate. But theseconcerts are not easy of access for the general public, as the number ofseats for sale is very limited. And so the society is representative ofa little public whose taste is, broadly speaking, conservative andofficial; and the noise of the strife outside its doors only reaches itsears slowly, and with a deadened sound. 

The influence of the Conservatoire is, in music especially, an influenceof the past and of the Government. One may say much the same of theOpera. This ancient association, which bears the imposing name of_Académie nationale de Musique_ and dates from 1669, is a sort ofnational institution which is more concerned with the history ofofficial art than with living art. The satire with which Jean-Jacquesdescribes, in his _Nouvelle Héloïse_, the stiff solemnity and mournfulpomp of its performances has not lost much of its truth. What is lackingin the Opera to-day is the enthusiasm that accompanied its formermusical struggles in the times of the "_Encyclopédistes_" and the"_guerre des coins_. " The great battles of art are now fought outsideits doors; and it has become by degrees a showy _salon_, a little fadedperhaps, where the public is more interested in itself than in theperformance. In spite of the enormous sums that it swallows up everyyear (nearly four million francs), [213] only one or two new pieces areproduced in a year, and they are rarely works that are representative ofthe modern school. And though it has at last admitted Wagner's dramasinto its repertory, one can no longer consider these works, half acentury old, to be in the vanguard of music. The most esteemed mastersof the French school, such as Massenet, Reyer, Chausson, and Vincentd'Indy, had to seek refuge in the Théâtre de la Monnaie at Brusselsbefore they could get their works received at the Opera in Paris. Andthe classical composers fare no better. Neither _Fidelio_ nor Gluck'stragedies--with the exception of _Armide_, which was put on underpressure of fashion--are represented; and when by chance they give_Freischütz_ or _Don Juan_, one wonders if it would not have been betterto let them rest in oblivion, rather than treat them sacrilegiously byadding, cutting, introducing ballets and new recitatives, and deformingtheir style so as to bring them "up to date. "[214]

[Footnote 213: This is according to M. Rivet's report on the_Beaux-Arts_ in 1906. The Opera employs 1370 people, and its expensesare about 3, 988, 000 francs. The annual grant of the State comes to about800, 000 francs. ]

[Footnote 214: On the occasion of the revival of _Don Juan_ in 1902, the_Revue Musicale_ counted up the pages that had been added to theoriginal score. They came to two hundred and twenty-eight. ]

In spite of the changes of taste and the campaign of the press, theOpera has remained to this day as it was in the time of Meyerbeer andGounod and their disciples. But it would be foolish to pretend that ithas not its public. The receipts show well enough that _Faust_ is ingreater favour than _Siegfried_ or _Tristan_, not to speak of the morerecent works of the new French school, which cannot be acclimatisedthere. 

Without doubt, the enormous stage at the Opera does not lend itself wellto modern musical dramas, which are intimate and concentrated, and wouldbe lost in its immense space, which is more adapted for formalprocessions like the marches in the _Prophète_ and _Aïda_. Besides this, there is the conventional acting of the majority of the singers, thedull lifelessness of the choruses, the defective acoustics, and theexaggerated utterance and gestures of the actors, demanded by the greatdimensions of the place--all of which is a serious obstacle to theconception of a living and simple art. But the chief obstacle willalways lie in the very nature of such a theatre--a theatre of luxury andvanity, created for a set of snobs, whose least interest is the music, who have not enough intellect to create a fashion, but who servilelyfollow every fashion after it is thirty years old. Such a theatre nolonger counts in the history of French music; and its next directorswill need a vast amount of ingenuity and energy to get a semblance oflife into such a dead colossus. 

But it is quite another affair with the Opéra-Comique. This theatre hastaken a very active part in the development of modern music. Withoutrenouncing its classic traditions, or its delightful repertory of theold _opéra-comiques_, it has had understanding enough, under thejudicious management of M. Albert Carré, to hold itself open for anyinteresting productions in dramatic music. It takes no side among thedifferent schools; and the representatives of the old-fashioned lightopera with their songs elbow the leaders of the advanced school. Noassociation has done more important work, among musical dramas as wellas musical comedies, during the last twenty years. In this theatre, which produced _Carmen_ in 1875, _Manon_ in 1884, and the _Roi d'Ys_ in1888, were played the principal dramas of M. Bruneau, as well as M. Charpentier's _Louise_, M. Debussy's _Pelléas et Mélisande_, and M. Dukas's _Ariane et Barbebleue_. It may seem astonishing that such worksshould have found a place at the Opéra-Comique and not at the Opera. Butif two musical theatres of different kinds exist, one of which pretendsto have the monopoly of great art, while the other with a simpler andmore intimate character seeks only to please, it is always the latterthat has a better chance of development and of making new discoveries;for the first is oppressed by traditions that become ever stiffer andmore pedantic, while the other with its simplicity and lack ofpretension is able to accommodate itself to any manner of life. How manyartists have revolutionised their times while they were merely lookedupon as people who amused! Frescobaldi and Philipp Emanuel Bach broughtfresh life to art, but were scorned by the so-called representatives offine art; Mozart's _opere buffe_ have more of truth and life in themthan his _opere serie_; and there is as much dramatic power in an_opéra-comique_ like _Carmen_ as in all the repertory of grand Operato-day. And so the Opéra-Comique theatre has become the home of theboldest experiments in musical drama. The most daring or the mostviolent ventures into musical realism, after the manner of Charpentieror Bruneau, and the subtle fantasies of a delicate art of dreams, likethat of Debussy, have found a welcome there. It has also been open tovarious kinds of foreign art: Humperdinck's _Hänsel und Gretel_, Verdi's_Falstaff_, the works of Puccini, Mascagni, and the young Italianschool, Richard Strauss's _Feuersnot_, Rimsky-Korsakow's_Snégourotchka_, have all been played. And they have even given theclassic masterpieces of opera there: _Fidelio_, _Orfeo_, _Alceste_, thetwo _Iphigénies_; and taken more pains with them and mounted them withmore pious zeal than they do at the Opera. The operas themselves aremore at home there, too, for the size of the theatre is more like thatof the eighteenth-century theatres. It is true that the stage ratherlacks depth; but the ingenuity of the director and the admirable scenicartists he employs has succeeded in making one forget this defect, andaccomplished marvels. No theatre in Paris has more artistic staging, andsome of the scenery that has been designed lately is a masterpiece ofits kind. The Opéra-Comique has also the advantage of excellentconductors, and one of them, M. Messager, who is now Director, has, byhis clever interpretations, greatly contributed to the success of theworks of the new school. 

NEW MUSICAL INSTITUTIONS

1. _The Société Nationale_

Before 1870, French music had already in the Opera and the Opéra-Comique(without counting the various endeavours of the Théâtre Lyrique) anoutlet which was nearly enough for the needs of her dramaticproductions. Even when musical taste was most decadent, the works ofGounod, Ambroise Thomas, and Massé, had always upheld the name of French_opéra-comique_. But what was almost entirely lacking was an outlet forsymphonic music and chamber-music. "Before 1870, " wrote M. Saint-Saënsin _Harmonie et Mélodie_, "a French composer who was foolish enough toventure on to the ground of instrumental music had no other means ofgetting his works performed than by himself arranging a concert forthem. " Such was Berlioz's case; for he had to gather together anorchestra and hire a room each time he wished to get a hearing for hisgreat symphonies. The financial result was often disastrous: theperformance of the _Damnation de Faust_ in 1846 was, for example, acomplete failure, and he had to give it up. The Conservatoire, which wasformerly more hospitable, rather reluctantly performed a portion of_L'Enfance du Christ_; but it gave young composers no encouragement. 

The first man who attempted to make the symphony popular, M. Saint-Saënstells us in his _Portraits et Souvenirs_, was Seghers, a dissentientmember of the _Société des Concerts du Conservatoire_, who duringseveral years (1848-1854) was conductor of the _Société deSainte-Cécile_, which had its quarters in a room in the rue de laChaussée d'Antin. There he had performed Mendelssohn's _SymphonieItalienne_, the overtures to _Tannhäuser_ and _Manfred_, Berlioz's_Fuite en Égypte_, and Gounod's and Bizet's early, works. But lack ofmoney cut short his efforts. 

Pasdeloup took up the work. After having been conductor for the _Sociétédes jeunes artistes du Conservatoire_ since 1851, in the Salle Herz, hefounded, in 1861, at the Cirque d'Hiver, with the financial support of arich moneylender, the first _Concerts populaires de musique classique_. Unhappily, says M. Saint-Saëns, Pasdeloup, even up to 1870, made analmost exclusive selection of German classical works. He raised animpenetrable barrier before the young French school, and the only Frenchworks he played were symphonies by Gounod and Gouvy, and the overturesof _Les Francs-Juges_ and _La Muette_. It was impossible to set up arival society against him; and an exclusive monopoly in music was, therefore, held by him. According to M. Saint-Saëns he was a mediocremusician, and had, in spite of his passion for music, "immenseincapacity. " In _Harmonie et Mélodie_ M. Saint-Saëns says: "The fewchamber-music societies that existed were also closed to all new-comers;their programmes only contained the names of undisputed celebrities, thewriters of classic symphonies. In those times one had really to bedevoid of all common sense to write music. "

A new generation was growing up, however, --a generation that was seriousand thoughtful, that was more attracted by pure music than by thetheatre, that was filled with a burning desire to found a national art. To this generation M. Saint-Saëns and M. Vincent d'Indy belong. The warof 1870 strengthened these ideas about music, and, while the war wasstill raging, there sprang from them the _Société Nationale de Musique_. 

One must speak of this society with respect, for it was the cradle andsanctuary of French art. [215] All that was great in French music from1870 to 1900 found a home there. Without it, the greater part of theworks that are the honour of our music would never have been played;perhaps they would not ever have been written. The Society possessed therare merit of being able to anticipate public opinion by ten or elevenyears, and in some ways it has formed the public mind and obliged it tohonour those whom the Society had already recognised as great musicians. 

[Footnote 215: The facts which follow are taken from the archives of the_Société Nationale de Musique_, and have been given me by M. Pierre deBréville, the Society's secretary. ]

The two founders of the Society were Romaine Bussine, professor ofSinging at the Conservatoire, and M. Camille Saint-Saëns. And, followingtheir initiative, César Franck, Ernest Guiraud, Massenet, Garcin, Gabriel Fauré, Henri Duparc, Théodore Dubois, and Taffanel, joinedforces with them, and at a meeting on 25 February, 1871, agreed to founda musical society that should give hearings to the works of livingFrench composers exclusively. The first meetings were interrupted by thedoings of the Commune; but they began again in October, 1871. TheSociety's early statutes were drawn up by Alexis de Castillon, amilitary officer and a talented composer, who, after having served inthe war of 1870 at the head of the _mobiles_ of Eure-et-Loire, was oneof the founders of French chamber-music, and died prematurely in 1873, aged thirty-five. It was these statutes, signed by Saint-Saëns, Castillon, and Garcin, that gave the Society its title of _SociétéNationale de Musique_, and its device, "_Ars gallica_. " This is what thestatutes say about the aims of the Society:

 "The aim of the Society is to aid the production and the popularisation of all serious musical works, whether published or unpublished, of French composers; to encourage and bring to light, so far as is in its power, all musical endeavour, whatever form it may take, on condition that there is evidence of high, artistic aspiration on the part of the author. .. . It is in brotherly love, with complete forgetfulness of self, and with the firm intention of aiding one another as far as they can, that the members of the Society will co-operate, each in his own sphere of action, for the study and performance of the works which they shall be called upon to select and to interpret. "

The first Committee was made up as follows: President, Bussine;Vice-President, Saint-Saëns; Secretary, Alexis de Castillon;Under-Secretary, Jules Garcin; Treasurer, Lenepveu. The members of theCommittee were: César Franck, Théodore Dubois, E. Guiraud, Fissot, Bourgault-Ducoudray, Fauré, and Lalo. 

The first concert was given on 25 November, 1871, in the Salle Pleyel;and it is worthy of note that the first work played was a trio of CésarFranck's. Since then the Society has given three hundred and fiftyperformances of chamber-music or orchestral works. The best known Frenchcomposers and virtuosi have taken part as executants, among others:César Franck, Saint-Saëns, Massenet, Bizet, Vincent d'Indy, Fauré, Chabrier, Guiraud, Debussy, Lekeu, Lamoureux, Chevillard, Taffanel, Widor, Messager, Diémer, Sarasate, Risler, Cortot, Ysaye, etc. And amongthe compositions that have been played for the first time it is enoughto mention the following:

César Franck: Nearly the whole of his works, including his Sonata, Trio, Quartette, Quintette, Symphonic Variations, Preludes and Fugues, Mass, _Rédemption_, _Psyche_, and a part of _Les Béatitudes_. 

Saint-Saëns: _Phaéton_, _Second Symphony_, Sonatas, Persian Melodies, the _Rapsodie d'Auvergne_, and a quartette. 

Vincent d'Indy: The trilogy of _Wallenstein_, the _Poême des Montagues_, the _Symphonie sur un thème montagnard_, and quartettes. 

Chabrier: Part of _Gwendoline_. 

Lalo: Fragments of the _Roi d'Ys_, Rhapsodies and Symphonies. 

Bruneau: _Penthésilée_, _La Belle au Bois Dormant_. 

Chausson: _Viviane_, _Hélène_, _La Tempête_, a quartette and a symphony. 

Debussy: _La Damoiselle élue_, the _Prélude à l'après-midi d'un faune_, a quartette, pieces for the pianoforte, and melodies. 

Dukas: _L'Apprenti Sorcier_, and a sonata for the pianoforte. 

Lekeu: _Andromède_. 

Alberic Magnard: Symphonies and a quartette. 

Ravel: _Schéhérazade_, _Histoires Naturelles_, etc. 

Saint-Saëns was director with Bussine until 1886. But from 1881 theinfluence of Franck and his disciples became more and more felt; andSaint-Saëns began to lose interest in the efforts of the new school. In1886 there was a division of opinion about a proposition of Vincentd'Indy's to introduce the works of classical masters and foreigncomposers into the programmes. This proposition was adopted; butSaint-Saëns and Bussine sent in their resignations. Franck then becamethe true president, although he refused the title; and after his death, in 1890, Vincent d'Indy took his place. Under these two directors aquite important place was given to old and classical music by composerssuch as Palestrina, Vittoria, Josquin, Bach, Händel, Rameau, Gluck, Beethoven, Schumann, Liszt, and Brahms. Foreign contemporary music onlyoccupied a very limited place. Wagner's name only appears once, in atranscription of the _Venusberg_ for the pianoforte; and RichardStrauss's name figures only against his Quartette. Grieg had his hour ofpopularity there about 1887, as well as the Russians--Moussorgski, Borodine, Rimsky-Korsakow, Liadow, and Glazounow--whom M. Debussy hasperhaps helped to make known to us. At the present moment the Societyseems more exclusively French than ever; and the influence of M. Vincentd'Indy and the school of Franck is predominant. That is only natural;the _Société Nationale_ most truly earned its title to glory bydiscerning César Franck's genius; for the Society was a little sanctuarywhere the great artist was honoured at a time when he was ignored orlaughed at by the rest of the world. This character of a sanctuary waskept even after victory. In its general programme of 1903-1904, theSociety reminded us with pride that it had remained faithful to thepromises made in 1871; and it added that if, in order to permit itsmembers to keep abreast of the general progress of art, it had little bylittle allowed classical masterpieces and modern foreign works ofinterest on its programmes, it had, however, always kept itsguest-chamber open, and shaped many a future reputation there. 

Nothing is truer. The _Société Nationale_ is indeed a guest-chamber, where for the past thirty years a guest-chamber art and guest-chamberopinions have been formed; and from it some of the profoundest and mostpoetic French music has been derived, such as Franck's and Debussy'schamber-music. But its atmosphere is becoming daily more rarefied. Thatis a danger. It is to be feared that this art and thought may beabsorbed by the decadent subtleties or pedantic scholasticism which isapt to accompany all coteries--in short, that its music will besalon-music rather than chamber-music. Even the Society itself seems tohave felt this at times; and at different periods has sought contactwith the general public, and put itself into direct communication withit. "It becomes more and more necessary, " wrote M. Saint-Saëns, "thatFrench composers should find something intermediate between an intimatehearing of their music and a performance of it before the generalpublic--something which would not be a speculative thing like a bigconcert, but which would be analogous to the artistic attraction of anexhibition of painting, and which would dare everything. It is a new aimfor the _Société Nationale_. " But it does not seem that it has yetattained this goal, nor that it is near attaining it, despite some notquite happy attempts. 

But at least the _Société Nationale_ has gloriously achieved the task itset itself. In thirty years it has created in Paris a little centre ofearnest composers of symphonies and chamber-music, and a cultured publicthat seems able to understand them. 

 * * * * *

2. _The Grand Symphony Concerts_

Although it was an urgent matter that young French composers shouldunite to withstand the general indifference of the public, it was moreurgent still that that indifference should be attacked, and that musicshould be brought within reach of ordinary people. It was a matter oftaking up and completing Pasdeloup's work in a more artistic and moremodern spirit. 

A publisher of music, Georges Hartmann, feeling the forces that weredrawing together in French art, gathered about him the greater part ofthe talented men of the young school--Franck, Bizet, Saint-Saëns, Massenet, Delibes, Lalo, A. De Castillon, Th. Dubois, Guiraud, Godard, Paladilhe, and Joncières--and undertook to produce their works inpublic. He rented the Odéon theatre, and got together an orchestra, theconductorship of which he entrusted to M. Édouard Colonne. And on 2March, 1873, the _Concert National_ was inaugurated in a musicalmatinée, where M. Saint-Saëns played his _Concerto in G minor_ and Mme. Viardot sang Schubert's _Roi des Aulnes_. In the first year six ordinaryconcerts were given, and, besides that, two sacred concerts with choirs, at which César Franck's _Rédemption_ and Massenet's _Marie-Magdeleine_were performed. In 1874 the Odéon was abandoned for the Châtelet. Thisventure attracted some attention, and the concerts were patronised bythe public; but the financial results were not great. [216] Hartmann wasdiscouraged and wished to give the whole thing up. But M. ÉdouardColonne conceived the idea of turning his orchestra into a society, andof continuing the work under the name of _Association Artistique_. Amongthe artist-founders were MM. Bruneau, Benjamin Godard, and PaulHillemacher. Its early days were full of struggle; but owing to theperseverance of the Association all obstacles were finally overcome. In1903 a festival was held to celebrate its thirtieth anniversary. Duringthese thirty years it had given more than eight hundred concerts, andhad performed the works of about three hundred composers, of which halfwere French. The four composers most frequently heard at the Châteletwere Saint-Saëns, Wagner, Beethoven, and Berlioz. [217]

[Footnote 216: It must be remembered that the prices of the seats weremuch cheaper than they are to-day; the best were only three francs. ]

[Footnote 217: There were about 340 performances of Saint-Saëns' works, 380 of Wagner's, 390 of Beethoven's, and 470 of Berlioz's. I owe thesedetails to the kind information of M. Charles Malherbe and M. LéonPetitjean, the secretary of the Colonne concerts. ]

Berlioz is almost the exclusive property of the Châtelet. Not only havethey performed his works there more frequently than anywhere else, [218]but they are better understood there than in other places. The Colonneorchestra and its conductor, gifted with great warmth of spirit, --thoughit is sometimes a little intemperate--are rather bothered by works of aclassic nature and by those that show contemplative feeling; but theygive wonderful expression to Berlioz's tumultuous romanticism, hispoetic enthusiasm, and the bright and delicate colouring of hispaintings and his musical landscapes. Although Berlioz has his place atthe Chevillard and Conservatoire concerts, it is to the Châtelet thathis followers flock; and their enthusiasm has not been affected by thecampaign that for several years has been directed against Berlioz bysome French critics under the influence of the younger musicalparty--the followers of d'Indy and Debussy. 

[Footnote 218: The _Damnation de Faust_ alone was given in its entiretya hundred and fifty times in thirty years. ]

It is also at the Châtelet that the keenest musical passion has beenpreserved in the public, even to this day. Thanks to the size of thetheatre, which is one of the largest in Paris, and to the great numberof cheap seats, you may always find there a number of young students whomake the most interested kind of public possible. And the music issomething more than a pleasure to them--it is a necessity. There aresome that make great sacrifices in order to have a seat at the Sundayconcerts. And many of these young men and women live all the week on thethought of forgetting the world for a few hours in musical enjoyment. Such a public did not exist in France before 1870. It is to the honourof the Châtelet and the Pasdeloup concerts to have created it. 

Édouard Colonne has done more than educate musical taste in France; forno one has worked harder than he to break down the barriers thatseparated the French public from the art of other lands; and, at thesame time, he has himself helped to make French art known toforeigners. When he himself was conducting concerts all over Europe heentrusted the conductorship at the Châtelet to the great German_Kapellmeister_ and to foreign composers--to Richard Strauss, Grieg, Tschaikowsky, Hans Richter, Hermann Levi, Mottl, Nikisch, Mengelberg, Siegfried Wagner, and many others. No other conductor has done so muchfor Parisian music during the last thirty years; and we must not forgetit. [219]

[Footnote 219: It is known that M. Colonne has now a helper in M. Gabriel Pierné, who will succeed him when he retires. ]

The Lamoureux concerts have had from the beginning a very differentcharacter from the Colonne concerts. That difference lies partly in thepersonality of the two conductors, and partly in the fact that theLamoureux concerts, although of later date than the Colonne concerts byless than ten years, represent a new generation in music. The progressof the musical public was singularly rapid: hardly had they explored therich treasure-house of Berlioz's music than they were making discoveriesin the world of Wagner. And in that world they needed a new guide, whohad intimate knowledge of Wagner's art and of German art in general. Charles Lamoureux was that guide. In 1873 he conducted specialperformances of Bach and Händel, given by the _Societé de l'Harmoniesacrée_. After leaving the conductorship of the Opera, he inaugurated, on 21 October, 1881, at the Château-d'Eau theatre, the _Société desNouveaux Concerts_. These concerts had at first very comprehensiveprogrammes of every kind of music and every kind of school. At thefirst concert there were works of Beethoven, Händel, Gluck, Sacchini, Cimarosa, and Berlioz. In the first year Lamoureux had Beethoven's_Ninth Symphony_ performed, as well as a large part of _Lohengrin_, andnumerous works of young French musicians. Various compositions of Lalo, Vincent d'Indy, and Chabrier, were performed there for the first time. But it was especially to the study of Wagner's works that Lamoureux mostgladly devoted himself. It was he who gave the first hearings of Wagnerin their entirety in France, such as the first and second act of_Tristan_, in 1884-1885. The Wagnerian battle was still going on at thattime, as the notice printed at the head of the programme of _Tristan_shows. 

 "The management of the _Société des Nouveaux Concerts_ is desirous of avoiding any disturbance during the performance of the second act of _Tristan_, and urgently and respectfully begs that the audience will abstain from giving any mark of their approval or disapproval before the end of the act. "

The same year, in the Eden theatre, to which the concerts had beentransferred, Lamoureux conducted, for the first time in Paris, the firstact of the _Walküre_. In these concerts the tenor, Van Dyck, made his_début_; later, he was one of the leading performers at Bayreuth. In1886-1887 Lamoureux rehearsed and conducted the only performance of_Lohengrin_ at the Eden theatre. Disturbances in the streets preventedfurther performances. Lamoureux then established himself in theconcert-room of the Cirque des Champs Élysées, where for eleven years hehas given what are called the _Concerts-Lamoureux_. He continued tospread the knowledge of Wagner's works, and has sometimes had the helpof some of the most celebrated of the Bayreuth artists, among others, that of Mme. Materna and Lilli Lehmann. At the end of the season of 1897Lamoureux wished to disband his orchestra in order to conduct concertsabroad. But the members of the orchestra decided to remain togetherunder the name of the _Association des Concerts-Lamoureux_, withLamoureux's son-in-law, M. Camille Chevillard, as conductor. ButLamoureux was not long before he returned to the conductorship of theconcerts, which had now returned to the Château-d'Eau theatre; and a fewmonths before his death, in 1899, he conducted the first performance of_Tristan_ at the Nouveau theatre. And so he had the happiness of beingpresent at the complete triumph of the cause for which he had fought sostubbornly for nearly twenty years. [220]

[Footnote 220: My statements may be verified by the account published inthe _Revue Éolienne_ of January, 1902, by M. Léon Bourgeois, secretaryof the Committee of the _Association des Concerts-Lamoureux_. ]

Lamoureux's performances of Wagner's works have been among the best thathave ever been given. He had a regard for the work as a whole and a carefor its details, to which the Colonne orchestra did not quite attain. Onthe other hand, Lamoureux's defect was the exuberant liveliness withwhich he interpreted compositions of a romantic nature. He did not fullyunderstand these works; and although he knew much more about classic artthan his rival, he rendered its letter rather than its spirit, and paidsuch sedulous attention to detail that music like Beethoven's lost itsintensity and its life. But both his talents and his defects fitted himto be an excellent interpreter of the young neo-Wagnerian school, theprincipal representatives of which in France were then M. Vincent d'Indyand M. Emmanuel Chabrier. Lamoureux had need, to a certain extent, to behimself directed either by the living traditions of Bayreuth, or by thethought of modern and living composers; and the greatest service herendered to French music was his creation, thanks to his extreme carefor material perfection, of an orchestra that was marvellously equippedfor symphonic music. 

This seeking for perfection has been carried on by his successor, M. Camille Chevillard, whose orchestra is even more refined still. One maysay, I think, that it is to-day the best in Paris. M. Chevillard is moreattracted by pure music than Lamoureux was; and he rightly finds thatdramatic music has been occupying too large a place in Parisianconcerts. In a letter published by the _Mercure de France_, in January, 1903, he reproaches the educators of public taste with having fostered aliking for opera, and with not having awakened a respect for pure music:"Any four bars from one of Mozart's quartettes have, " he says, "agreater educational value than a showy scene from an opera. " No one inParis conducts classic works better than he, especially the works thatpossess clean, plastic beauty; and in Germany itself it would bedifficult to find anyone who would give a more delicate interpretationof some of Händel's and Mozart's symphonic works. His orchestra haskept, moreover, the superiority that it had already acquired in itsrepertory of Wagner's works. But M. Chevillard has communicated a warmthand energy of rhythm to it that it did not possess before. Hisinterpretations of Beethoven, even if they are somewhat superficial, arevery full of life. Like Lamoureux, he has hardly caught the spirit ofFrench romantic works--of Berlioz, and still less of Franck and hisschool; and he seems to have but lukewarm sympathy for the more recentdevelopments of French music. But he understands well the Germanromantic composers, especially Schumann, for whom he has a markedliking; and he tried, though without great success, to introduce Lisztand Brahms into France, and was the first among us to attract realattention to Russian music, whose brilliant and delicate colouring heexcels in rendering. And, like M. Colonne, he has brought the greatGerman _Kapellmeister_ among us--Weingartner, Nikisch, and RichardStrauss, the last mentioned having directed the first performance inParis of his symphonic poems, _Zarathustra_, _Don Quixote_, and_Heldenleben_, at the Lamoureux concerts. 

Nothing could have better completed the musical education of the publicthan this continuous defile, for the past ten years, of _Kapellmeister_and foreign virtuosi, and the comparisons that their different stylesand interpretations afforded. Nothing has better helped forward theimprovement of Parisian orchestras than the emulation brought about bythe meetings between Parisian conductors and those of other countries. At present our own conductors are worthy rivals of the best in Germany. The string instruments are good; the wood has kept its old Frenchsuperiority; and though the brass is still the weakest part of ourorchestras, it has made great progress. One may still criticise thegrouping of orchestras at concerts, for it is often defective; there isa disproportion between the different families of instruments and, inconsequence, between their different sonorities, some of which are toothin and others too dull. But these defects are fairly common all overEurope to-day. Unhappily, more peculiar to France is the insufficiencyor poor quality of the choirs, whose progress has been far from keepingpace with that of the orchestras. It is to this side of music that thedirectors of concerts must now bring their efforts to bear. 

The Lamoureux Concerts have not had as stable a dwelling-place as theChâtelet Concerts. They have wandered about Paris from one room toanother--from the Cirque d'Hiver to the Cirque d'Été, and from theChâteau-d'Eau to the Nouveau Théâtre. At the present moment they are inthe Salle Gaveau, which is much too small for them. In spite of theprogress of music and musical taste, Paris has not yet a concert-hall, as the smallest provincial towns in Germany have; and this shamefulindifference, unworthy of the artistic renown of Paris, obliges thesymphonic societies to take refuge in circuses or theatres, which theyshare with other kinds of performers, though the acoustics of theseplaces are not intended for concerts. And so it happens that for sixyears the Chevillard Concerts have been given at the back of amusic-hall, which has the same entrance, and which is only separatedfrom the concert-room by a small passage, so that the roaring chorusesof a _danse du venire_ may mingle with an adagio of Beethoven's or ascene from the Tetralogy. Worse than this, the smallness of the placeinto which these concerts have been crammed has been a serious obstaclein the way of making them popular. Nevertheless, in the promenade andgalleries of the Nouveau Théâtre, in later years, arose what may becalled a little war over concertos. It was rather a curious episode inthe history of the musical taste of Paris, and merits a few words here. In every country, but especially in those countries that are leastmusical, a virtuoso profits by public favour, often to the detriment ofthe work he is performing; for what is most liked in music is themusician. The virtuoso--whose importance must not be underrated, and whois worthy of honour when he is a reverential and sympathetic interpreterof genius--has too often taken a lamentable part, especially in Latincountries, in the degrading of musical taste; for empty virtuosity makesa desert of art. The fashion of inept fantasias and acrobaticvariations has, it is true, gone by; but of late years virtuosity hasreturned in an offensive way, and, sheltering itself under the solemnclassical name of "concertos, " it usurped a place of rather exaggeratedimportance in symphony concerts, and especially in M. Chevillard'sconcerts--a place which Lamoureux would never have given it. Then theyounger and more enthusiastic part of the public began to revolt; andvery soon, with perfect impartiality and quite indiscriminately, beganto hiss famous and obscure virtuosi alike in their performance of anyconcerto, whether it was splendid or detestable. Nothing found favourwith them--neither the playing of Paderewski, nor the music ofSaint-Saëns and the great masters. The management of the concerts wentits own way and tried in vain to put out the disturbers, and to forbidthem entry to the concert-room; and the battle went on for a long time, and critics were drawn into it. But in spite of its ridiculous excesses, and the barbarism of the methods by which the parterre expressed itsopinions, that quarrel is not without interest. It proved how a passionand enthusiasm for music had been roused in France; and the passion, though unjust in its expression, was more fruitful and of far greaterworth than indifference. 

 * * * * *

3. _The Schola Cantorum_

The Lamoureux Concerts had served their purpose, and, in their turn, their heroic mission came to an end. They had forced Wagner on Paris;and Paris, as always, had overshot the mark, and could swear by no onebut Wagner. French musicians were translating Gounod's or Massenet'sideas into Wagner's style; Parisian critics repeated Wagner's theoriesat random, whether they understood them or not--generally when they didnot understand them. A reaction was inevitable directly Paris was wellsaturated with Wagner; and it came about in 1890, among a chosen few, some of whom had been, and were even still, under Wagner's influence. Itwas at first only a mild reaction, and showed itself in a return to theclassics of the past and to the great primitives in music. 

There had been several attempts in this direction before, but none ofthem had succeeded in making any impression on the mass of the public. In 1843, Joseph Napoléon Ney, Prince of Moszkowa, founded in Paris asociety for the performance of religious and classical vocal music. Thissociety, which the Prince himself conducted in his own house, set itselfto perform the vocal works of the sixteenth and seventeenthcenturies. [221]

[Footnote 221: It published, in eleven volumes, the ancient works thatit performed. Before this experiment there had been the _Concertshistoriques de Fétis_, preceded by lectures, which were inaugurated in1832, and failed; and these were followed by Amédée Méréaux's _Concertshistoriques_ in 1842-1844. ]

In 1853, Louis Niedermeyer founded in Paris an _École de musiquereligieuse et classique_, which strove "to form singers, organists, choir-masters, and composers of music, by the study of the classic worksof the great masters of the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenthcenturies. " This school, subsidised by the State, was a nursery forsome real musicians. It reckoned among its pupils some noted composers, conductors, organists, and historians; among others, M. Gabriel Fauré, M. André Messager, M. Eugène Gigout, and M. Henry Expert. M. Saint-Saënswas a professor there, and became its president. Nearly five hundredorganists, choir-masters, and professors of music of the Conservatoireand other French colleges were trained there. But this school, seriousin intention, and a refuge for the classic spirit in the midst of theprevailing bad taste, did not trouble itself about influencing thepublic, and, in fact, almost ignored it. 

Lamoureux attempted in 1873 to perform the great choral works of Bachand Händel; and in 1878 the celebrated French organist, M. AlexandreGuilmant, ventured to give concerts at the Trocadéro for the organ andorchestra, which were devoted to religious music of the seventeenth andeighteenth centuries. But the deplorable acoustics of the concert-roomhad a prejudicial effect on the works that were performed there; and thepublic did not respond very warmly to M. Guilmant's efforts, and seemedfrom the first only to find an historical interest in the masterpieces, and to miss their depth and life altogether. 

Then a pupil of Franck's, M. Henry Expert, who began his admirable workson Musical History in 1882, laid the foundation of the _Société J. S. Bach_, in order to spread the knowledge of ancient music written betweenthe twelfth and eighteenth centuries. And he succeeded in interestingin his undertaking, not only the principal French musicians, such asCésar Franck, Saint-Saëns, and Gounod, but also foreigners, such as Hansvon Bülow, Tschaikowsky, Grieg, Sgambati, and Gevaert. Unhappily thissociety never got farther than arranging what it wanted to do, and onlysketched out the plans that were realised later by Charles Bordes. 

The general public were not really interested in the art of the oldmusicians until the _Association des Chanteurs de Saint-Gervais_ wasfounded in 1892 by Charles Bordes, the choirmaster of the church ofSaint-Gervais. The immediate success and the noisy renown of the Societywere due to other things besides the talent of its conductor, whocombined with a lively artistic intelligence both common-sense andenergy and a remarkable gift for organisation--it was due partly to thehelp of favourable circumstances, partly to the surfeit of Wagnerism, ofwhich I have just spoken, and partly to the birth of a new religiousart, which had sprung up since the death of César Franck round thememory of that great musician. 

It is not my intention here to write an appreciation of César Franck'sgenius, but it is not possible to understand the musical movement inParis of the last fifteen years if one does not take into account theimportance of his teaching. The organ class at the Conservatoire, wherein 1872 Franck succeeded his old master Benoist, was for a long time, asM. Vincent d'Indy says, "the true centre for the study of Compositionat the Conservatoire. Many of his fellow-workers could never bringthemselves to look upon him as one of themselves, because he had theboldness to see in art something other than the means of earning aliving. Indeed, César Franck was not of them; and they made him feelthis. " But the young students made no mistake about the matter. "At thistime, " M. D'Indy also tells us, [222] "that is to say from 1872 to 1876, the three courses of Advanced Musical Composition were given by threeprofessors who were not at all fitted for their work. One was VictorMassé, a composer of simple light operas and a man with no understandingof a symphony, who was very frequently ill and had to entrust histeaching to one of his pupils; another was Henri Reber, an oldishmusician with narrow and dogmatic ideas; and the third was FrançoisBazin, who was not capable of distinguishing in his pupil's fugues afalse answer from a true one, and whose highest title to glory isderived from a composition called _Le Voyage en Chine_. So it is notsurprising that César Franck's teaching, founded on that of Bach andBeethoven, but admitting, as well, imagination and all new and liberalideas, did, at that time, draw to him all young minds that had loftyambitions and that were really in love with their art. And so, quiteunconsciously, the master attracted to himself all the sincere andartistic talent that was scattered about the different classes of theConservatoire, as well as that of his outside pupils. "

[Footnote 222: The following information was given by M. Vincent d'Indyat a lecture held on 20 February, 1903, at the _École des Hautes Étudessociales_--a lecture which later became a chapter in M. D'Indy's book, _César Franck_ (1906). ]

Among those who received his direct teaching[223] were Henri Duparc, Alexis de Castillon, Vincent d'Indy, Ernest Chausson, Pierre deBréville, Augusta Holmes, Louis de Serres, Charles Bordes, Guy Ropartz, and Guillaume Lekeu. And if to these we add the pupils in the organclasses, who also came under his influence, we have, among others, Samuel Rousseau, Gabriel Pierné, Auguste Chapuis, Paul Vidal, andGeorges Marty; and also the virtuosi who were for some time intimatewith him, such as Armand Parent and Eugène Ysaye, to whom Franckdedicated his violin sonata. And if one thinks, too, of the artists who, though not his pupils, felt his power--artists such as Gabriel Fauré, Alexandre Guilmant, Emmanuel Chabrier, and Paul Dukas--one may see thatnearly the whole musical generation of Paris of that time took itsinspiration from César Franck. And it was largely with the intention ofperpetuating his teaching that his pupils, Charles Bordes and Vincentd'Indy, and his friend, Alexandre Guilmant, founded in 1894, four yearsafter his death, the _Schola Cantorum_, which has kept his memory aliveever since. 

"Our revered father, Franck, " said Vincent d'Indy, in a speech, "is insome ways the grandfather of the _Schola Cantorum_; for it is his systemof teaching that we apply and try to carry on here. "[224]

[Footnote 223: A complete list may be found in M. D'Indy's book. ]

[Footnote 224 2: _Tribune de Saint-Gervais_, November, 1900. ]

The influence of Franck was twofold: it was artistic and moral. On theone hand he was, if I may so put it, an admirable professor of musicalarchitecture; he founded a school of symphony and chamber-music such asFrance had never had before, which in certain directions was newer andmore daring than that of the German symphony writers. And, on the otherhand, he exercised by his own character a memorable influence over allthose who came into contact with him. His profound faith, that fine, indulgent, and calm faith, shone round him like a glory. The Catholicparty, who were awakening to new life in France just then, tried, afterhis death, to identify his ideals with their own. But this was, as wehave said elsewhere, [225] to narrow Franck's mind; for its great charmlay in its harmonious union of religion and liberty, which never limitedits artistic sympathies to an exclusive ideal. The composer's son, M. Georges César-Franck, has in vain protested against this monopoly of hisfather, and says:

 "According to certain writers, who wish to reduce everything to a dead level and deduce all things from a single cause, César Franck was a mystic whose true domain was religious music. Nothing could be wider of the mark. The public is given to generalisations, and is too easily gulled. They will judge a composer on a single work, or a group of works, and class him once and for all. .. . In reality, my father was a man of all-round accomplishments. As a finished musician, he was master of every form of composition. He wrote both religious and secular music--melodies, dances, pastorales, oratorios, symphonic poems, symphonies, sonatas, trios, and operas. He did not confine his attention to any particular kind of work to the exclusion of other kinds; he was able to express himself in any way he chose. "[226]

But as what was really religious in him found itself in agreement with acurrent of thought that was rather powerful at that time, it wasinevitable that this one side of his genius should be first brought tolight, and that religious music should be the first to benefit by hiswork. And also one of the early manifestos[227] of the _Schola Cantorum_dealt with the reform of sacred music by carrying it back to greatancient models; and its first decision was as follows: "Gregorian chantshall rest for all time the fountain-head and the base of the Church'smusic, and shall constitute the only model by which it may be trulyjudged. "[228]

[Footnote 225: See the Essay on _Vincent d'Indy_. ]

[Footnote 226: _Revue d'histoire et de critique musicale_, August-September, 1901. ]

[Footnote 227: "The _Schola Cantorum_ aims at creating a modern musictruly worthy of the Church" (First number of the _Tribune deSaint-Gervais_, the monthly bulletin of the _Schola Cantorum_, January, 1895). ]

[Footnote 228: The Schola had in mind here the vigorous work of theFrench Benedictines, which had been done in silence for the past fiftyyears; it was thinking, too, of the restoration of the Gregorian chantduring 1850 and 1860 by Dom Guéranger, the first abbot of Solesmes, awork continued by Dom Jausions and Dom Pothier, the abbot ofSaint-Wandrille, who published in 1883 the _Mélodies Grégoriennes_, the_Liber Gradualis_, and the _Liber Antiphonarius_. This work was finallybrought to a happy conclusion by Dom Schmitt, and Dom Mocqucreau, theprior of Solesmes, who in 1889 began his monumental work, the_Paléo-graphie Musicals_, of which nine volumes had appeared in 1906. This great Benedictine school is an honour to France by the scientificwork it has lately done in music. The school is at present exiled fromFrance. ]

They added to this, however, music _à la Palestrina_, and any musicthat conformed to its principles or was inspired by its example. Sucharchaic ideas would certainly never create a new kind of religiousmusic, but at least they have helped to restore the old art; and theyreceived their official consecration in the famous letter written byPope Pius X on the Re-form of Sacred Music. 

The achievement of an artistic ideal so restricted as this would nothave sufficed, however, to assure the success of the _Schola Cantorum_, nor establish its authority with a public that was, whatever people maysay, only lukewarm in its religion, and that would only interest itselfin the religious art of other days as it would in a passing fashion. Butthe spirit of curiosity and the meaning of modern life began to weighlittle by little with the Schola's principles. After singingPalestrinian and Gregorian chants at the Church of Saint-Gervais duringHoly Week, they played Carissimi, Schütz, and the Italian and Germanmasters of the seventeenth century. Then came Bach's cantatas; and theirperformance, given by M. Bordes in the Salle d'Harcourt, attracted largeaudiences and started the cult of this master in Paris. Then they sangRameau and Gluck; and, finally, all ancient music, sacred or secular, was approved. And so this little school, which had been consecrated tothe cult of ancient religious music, and had made so modest abeginning, [229] developed into a School of Art capable of satisfyingmodern wants; and in 1900, when M. Vincent d'Indy became president ofthe _Schola_, it was decided to move the school into larger premises inthe Rue Saint-Jacques. 

The programme of this new school was explained by M. Vincent d'Indy inhis Inauguration speech on 2 November, 1900, and showed how he based thefoundations of musical teaching upon history. 

 "Art, in its journey across the ages, is a microcosm which has, like the world itself, successive stages of youth, maturity, and old age; but it never dies--it renews itself perpetually. It is not like a perfect circle; it is like a spiral, and in its growth is always mounting higher. I believe in making students follow the same path that art itself has followed, so that they shall undergo during their term of study the same transformations that music itself has undergone during the centuries. In this way they will come out much better armed for the difficulties of modern art, since they will have lived, so to speak, the life of art, and followed the natural and inevitable order of the forms that made up the different epochs of artistic development. "

[Footnote 229: When Charles Bordes opened the first _Schola Cantorum_ inthe Rue Stanislas he was without help or resources, and had exactlythirty-seven francs and fifty centimes in hand. I mention this detail togive an idea of the splendidly courageous and confident spirit thatCharles Bordes possessed. ]

M. D'Indy claims that this system may be applied as successfully toinstrumentalists and singers as to future composers. "For it is asprofitable for them to know, " he says, "how to sing a liturgic monodyproperly, or to be able to play a Corelli sonata in a suitable style, asit is for composers to study the structure of a motet or a suite. " M. D'Indy, moreover, obliged all students, without distinction, to attendthe lectures on vocal music; and, besides that, he instituted a specialclass to teach the conducting of orchestras--which was something quitenew to France. His object, as he clearly said, was to give a new form tomodern music by means of a knowledge of the music of the past. 

On this subject he says:

 "Where shall we find the quickening life that will give us fresh forms and formulas? The source is not really difficult to discover. Do not let us seek it anywhere but in the decorative art of the plain-song singers, in the architectural art of the age of Palestrina, and in the expressive art of the great Italians of the seventeenth century. It is there, and _there alone_, that we shall find melodic craft, rhythmic cadences, and a harmonic magnificence that is really new--if our modern spirit can only learn how to absorb their nutritious essence. And so I prescribe for all pupils in the School the careful study of classic forms, because _they alone_ are able to give the elements of a new life to our music, which will be founded on principles that are sane, solid, and trustworthy. "[230]

[Footnote 230: _Tribune de Saint-Gervais_, November, 1900. ]

This fine and intelligent eclecticism was likely to develop a criticalspirit, but was rather less adapted to form original personalities. Inany case, however, it was excellent discipline in the formation ofmusical taste; and, in truth, the _École Supérieure de musique_ of theRue Saint-Jacques became a new Conservatoire, both more modern and morelearned than the old Conservatoire, and freer, and yet less free, because more self-satisfied. The school developed very quickly. Fromhaving twenty-one pupils in 1896, it had three hundred and twenty in1908. Eminent musicians and professors learned in the history andscience of music taught there, and M. D'Indy himself took theComposition classes. [231] And in its short career the _Schola_ mayalready be credited with the training of young composers, such as MM. Roussel, Déodat de Séverac, Gustave Bret, Labey, Samazeuilh, R. DeCastéra, Sérieyx, Alquier, Coindreau, Estienne, Le Flem, and Groz; andto these may be added M. D'Indy's private pupils, Witkowski, and one ofthe foremost of modern composers, Alberic Magnard. 

[Footnote 231: There are actually nine courses of Composition at the_Schola_--five for men and four for women. M. D'Indy takes eight ofthem, as well as a mixed class for orchestra. ]

Outside the influence that the School exercises by its teaching, itspropaganda by means of concerts and publications is very active. Fromits foundation up to 1904 it had given two hundred performances in onehundred and thirty provincial towns; more than one hundred and fiftyconcerts in Paris, of which fifty were of orchestral and choral music, sixty of organ music, and forty of chamber-music. These concerts havebeen well attended by enthusiastic and appreciative audiences, and havebeen a school for public taste. One does not look for perfect executionthere, [232] but for intelligent interpretations and a thirst for afuller knowledge of the great works of the past. They have revivedMonteverde's _Orfeo_ and his _Incoronazione di Poppea_, which had beenforgotten these three centuries; and it was following an interestcreated by repeated performances of Rameau at the _Schola_[233] that_Dardanus_ was performed at Dijon under M. D'Indy's direction, _Castoret Pollux_ at Montpellier under M. Charles Bordes' direction, and thatin 1908 the Opera at Paris gave _Hippolyte et Aricie_. Branches of the_Schola_ have, been started at Lyons, Marseilles, Bordeaux, Avignon, Montpellier, Nancy, Épinal, Montluçon, Saint-Chamond, andSaint-Jean-deLuz. [234] A publishing house has been associated with theSchool at Paris; and from this we get Reviews, such as the _Tribune deSaint-Gervais_; publications of old music, such as the _Anthologie desmaîtres religieux primitifs des XVe, XVIe, et XVIIe siècles_, edited byCharles Bordes; the _Archives des maîtres de l'orgue des XVIe, XVIIe, etXVIIIe siècles_, edited by Alexandre Guilmant and André Pirro; the_Concerts spirituels de la Schola_, the new editions of _Orfeo_, and the_Incoronazione di Poppea_, edited by M. Vincent d'Indy; and publicationsof modern music, such as the _Collection du chant populaire_, the_Répertoire moderne de musique vocale et d'orgue_, and, notably, the_Édition mutuelle_, published by the composers themselves, whoseproperty it is. 

[Footnote 232: The orchestra is mainly composed of pupils; and, by agenerous arrangement, the financial profits from rehearsals andperformances are divided among the pupils who take part in them, andcredited to their account. And so besides the exhibitioners the _Schola_has a great number of pupils who are not well off, but who manage bythese concerts to defray almost the entire expenses of their educationthere. "The concerts serve more especially as aesthetic exercises forthe pupils, and as a means of according them teaching at small expenseto themselves. " I owe this information and all that precedes it to thekindness of M. J. De la Laurencie, the general secretary of the_Schola_, whom I should like to thank. ]

[Footnote 233: The _Schola_ has even performed, in an open-air theatre, Ramcau's _La Guirlande_. ]

[Footnote 234: One may add to this list the choral societies of Nantesand Besançon, which are bodies of the same order as the _Chanteurs deSaint-Gervais_. And we may also attribute to the influence of the_Schola_ an independent society, the _Société J. S. Bach_, started inParis by an old _Schola_ pupil, M. Gustave Bret, which, since 1905, hasdevoted itself to the performance of the great works of Bach. It is notone of the least merits of the _Schola_ that it has helped to form goodamateur choirs of the same type as the choral societies of Germany. ]

And all this shows such a marvellous activity and gives evidence of suchwhole-hearted enthusiasm that I cannot bring myself to join issue withthe critics who have lately attacked the _Schola_, though their attackshave been in some degree merited. Pettiness is to be found even in greatartists, and imperfection in every human work; and defects revealthemselves most clearly after a victory has been won. The _Schola_ hasnot escaped the critical periods that accompany growth, through whichevery work must pass if it is to triumph and endure. Without doubt, thesudden illness and premature retirement of the founder of the work, M. Charles Bordes, deprived the _Schola_ of one of its most activeforces--a force that was perhaps necessary for the school's successfuldevelopment. For this man had been the school's life and soul, andretired, worn out by the heavy labours which he had borne alone duringten years. [235]

[Footnote 235: M. Charles Bordes did not even then give up his laboursaltogether. Though obliged to retire to the south of France for hishealth's sake, he founded, in November, 1905, the _Schola_ ofMontpellier. This _Schola_ has given about fifteen concerts a year, andhas performed some of Bach's cantatas, scenes from Rameau's and Gluck'soperas, Franck's oratorios, and Monteverde's _Orfeo_. In 1906 M. Bordesorganised an open-air performance of Rameau's _Guirlande_. In January, 1908, he produced _Castor et Pollux_ at the Montpellier theatre. Theman's activity was incredible, and nothing seemed to tire him. He wasplanning to start a dramatic training-school at Montpellier for theproduction of seventeenth and eighteenth century operas, when he died, in November, 1909, at the age of forty-four, and so deprived French artof one of its best and most unselfish servants. ]

But M. D'Indy, like a courageous apostle, has continued the direction ofthe _Schola_ with a firm hand and unwearying care, despite his variedactivities as composer, professor, and _Kapellmeister_; and he is one ofthe surest and most reliable guides for a young school of French music. And if his mind is rather given to abstractions, and his moods aresometimes rather combative, and certain prejudices (which are not alwaysmusical ones) make him lean towards ideals of reason and immovablefaith--and if at times his followers unconsciously distort his ideas, and try to dam the stream which flows from life itself, I am convincedit is only the passing evidence of a reaction, perhaps a natural one, against the exaggerations they have encountered, and that the _Schola_will always know how to avoid the rocks where revolutionaries of thepast have run aground and become the conservatives of the morrow. I hopethe _Schola_ will never grow into the kind of aristocratic school thatbuilds walls about itself, but will always open wide its doors andwelcome every new force in music, even to such as have ideals opposed toits own. Its future renown and the well-being of French art can onlythus be maintained. 

 * * * * *

4. _The Chamber-Music Societies_

On parallel lines with the big symphony concerts and the new_conservatoires_, societies were formed to spread the knowledge of, andform a taste for, chamber-music. This music, so common in Germany, wasalmost unknown in Paris before 1870. There was nothing but the MaurinQuartette, which gave five or six concerts every winter in the SallePleyel, and played Beethoven's last quartettes there. But theseperformances only attracted a small number of artists;[236] and so faras the general public was concerned the _Société des derniers quartuorsde Beethoven_ had the reputation for devoting itself to a singular andincomprehensible kind of music that had been written by a deaf man. 

[Footnote 236: The quality of the audience atoned, it is true, for itssmall numbers. Berlioz used to come to these concerts with his friends, Damcke and Stephen Heller; and it was after one of these performances, when he had been very stirred by an _adagio_ in the E flat quartette, that he burst out with, "What a man! He could do everything, and theothers nothing!"]

The true founder of chamber-music concerts in Paris was M. ÉmileLemoine, who started the society called _La Trompette_. He has given usa history of his work in the _Revue Musicale_ (15 October, 1903). He wasan engineer at the École Poly-technique; and after he had left school heformed, about 1860, a quartette society of earnest amateurs, though theywere not very skilled performers. This little society continued to meetregularly, and after perfecting itself little by little, finally openedits doors to the general public, which attended the concerts ingradually increasing numbers. Then _La Trompette_ came into being. Itprospered from the day that M. Saint-Saëns--who was at that time a youngman--made its acquaintance. He was pleased with these gatherings, andbecame an intimate friend of Lemoine; and he interested himself in thesociety, and induced other celebrated artists to take an interest in it, too. Among its early friends were MM. Alphonse Duvernoy, Diémer, Pugno, Delsart, Breitner, Delaborde, Ch. De Bériot, Fissot, Marsick, Loëb, Rémy, and Holmann. With such patronage, _La Trompette_ soon acquiredfame in the musical world, and "it represented in classicalchamber-music the semi-official part played by the _Société des Concertsdu Conservatoire_ in classical orchestral music. Rubinstein, Paderewski, Eugène d'Albert, Hans von Bülow, Arthur de Greef, Mme. Essipoff, andMme. Menter, never missed getting a hearing there when their tours ledthem to Paris; and to figure on the programme of _La Trompette_ was likethe consecration of an artist. " Such a society naturally contributed agreat deal to the spread of classical chamber-music in Paris. M. Lemoinewrites:

 "Classical music was so little known to the musical public that even the audiences of _La Trompette_, cultured as they were, did not at all understand Beethoven's last quartettes; and my friends jeered at my taste for enigmas. This only made me the more determined that they should hear one of these great works at each concert. And sometimes I would give the same work at two or three concerts running if I thought it had not been properly appreciated. In that case I used to say before the performance: 'It seems to me that such-and-such a work has not been quite understood at the last hearing; and as it is a really marvellous work, I am sure that your feeling is that you do not know it sufficiently. So I have included it in to-day's programme. '"[237]

[Footnote 237: The name, _La Trompette_, was also the pretext forembellishing chamber-music, by introducing the trumpet among the otherinstruments. To this end M. Saint-Saëns wrote his fine septette forpiano, trumpet, two violins, viola, violoncello, and double bass; and M. Vincent d'Indy his romantic suite in D for trumpet, two flutes, andstring instruments. ]

These performances of sonatas, trios, and quartettes, were attentivelylistened to by an audience of five or six hundred persons, the greaterpart of them cultured people, students from the poly-technics anduniversities, who formed the kernel of a very discerning andenthusiastic public for chamber-music. 

By degrees, following the example of Émile Lemoine, other quartettesocieties were formed; and at present they are so numerous that it wouldbe difficult to name them all. And then there sprang up the same spiritof intelligent curiosity that had induced the French _Kapellmeister_ ofthe symphony concert societies sometimes to introduce their German andRussian colleagues as conductors; and for this purpose the _NouvelleSociété Philharmonique de Paris_ was founded, in 1901, on the initiativeof Dr. Fränkel and under the direction of M. Emmanuel Rey, to give ahearing in Paris to the principal foreign quartette players. And theprofit was as great in one case as in the other; and the friendlyrivalry between French quartette players and those of other countriesbore good fruit, and gave us a fuller understanding of the innercharacter of German music. 

 * * * * *

5. _Musical Learning and the University_

While this movement was going on in the artistic world, scholars weretaking their share in it, and music was beginning to invade theUniversity. 

But the thing was brought about with some difficulty; for among theseserious people music did not count as a serious study. Music was thoughtof as an agreeable art, a social accomplishment, and the idea of makingit the subject of scientific teaching must have been received with someamusement. Even up to the present time, general histories of Art haverefused to accord music a place, so little was thought of it; and otherarts were indignant at being mentioned in the same breath with it. Thisis illustrated in the eternal dispute among M. Jourdain's masters, whenthe fencing-master says:

 "And from this we know what great consideration is due to us in a State; and how the science of Fencing is far above all useless sciences, such as dancing and music. "

The first lectures on Aesthetics and Musical History were not given inFrance until after the war of 1870. [238] They were then given at theConservatoire, and, until quite lately, were the only lectures on Musicof any importance in Paris. Since 1878 they have been given in a veryexcellent way by M. Bourgault-Ducoudray; but, as is only natural in aschool of music, their character is artistic rather than scientific, andtakes the form of a sort of illustration of the practical work that isdone at the Conservatoire. And as for Parisian musical criticism as awhole, it had, thirty years ago, an almost exclusively literarycharacter, and was without technical precision or historical knowledge. 

[Footnote 238: On 12 September, 1871, at the suggestion of AmbroiseThomas. The first lecturer was Barbereau, who, however, only lecturedfor a year. He was succeeded by Gautier, Professor of Harmony andAccompaniment, who in turn was replaced, in 1878, by M. Bourgault-Ducoudray. ]

There again, on the territory of science, as on that of art, a newgeneration of musicians had sprung up since the war, a group of menversed in the history and aesthetics of music such as France had neverknown before. About 1890 the result of their labours began to appear. Henry Expert published his fine work, _Maîtres Musiciens de laRenaissance_, in which he revived a whole century of French music. Alexander Guilmant and André Pirro brought to daylight the works of ourseventeenth and eighteenth century organists. Pierre Aubry studiedmediaeval music. The admirable publications of the Benedictines ofSolesmes awoke at the _Schola_ and in the world outside it a taste forthe study of religious music. Michel Brenet attacked all epochs ofmusical history, and produced, by his solid learning, some fine work. Julien Tiersot began the history of French folk-song, and rescued themusic of the Revolution from oblivion. The publisher Durand set to workon his great editions of Rameau and Couperin. Towards 1893 the study ofMusic was introduced at the Sorbonne by some young professors, who madethe subject the theses for their doctor's degree. [239]

[Footnote 239: The first three theses on Music accepted at the Sorbonnewere those of M. Jules Combarieu on _The Relationship of Poetry andMusic_, of M. Romain Holland on _The Beginnings of Opera before Lullyand Scarlatti_, and of M. Maurice Emmanuel on _Greek Orchestics_. Therefollowed, several years afterwards, M. Louis Laloy's _Aristoxenus ofTarento and Greek Music_ and M. Jules Écorcheville's _MusicalAesthetics, from Lully to Rameau_ and _French Instrumental Music of theSeventeenth Century_, M. André Pirro's _Aesthetics of Johann SebastianBach_, and M. Charles Lalo's _Sketch of Scientific MusicalAesthetics_. ]

This movement with regard to musical study grew rapidly; and the firstInternational Congress of Music, held in Paris at the time of theUniversal Exhibition of 1900, gave historians of music an opportunity ofrealising their influence. In a few years, teaching about music was tobe had everywhere. At first there were the free lectures of M. LionelDauriac and M. Georges Houdard at the Sorbonne, those of MM. Aubry, Gastoué, Pirro, and Vincent d'Indy at the _Schola_ and the _InstitutCatholique_; and then, at the beginning of 1902, there was the littleFaculty of Music of the _École des Hautes Études sociales_, making acentre for the efforts of French scholars of music; and, in 1900, twoofficial courses of lectures on Musical History and Aesthetics weregiven at the College de France and the Sorbonne. 

The progress of musical criticism was just as rapid. Professors offaculties, old pupils of the École Normale Supérieure, or the École desChartes, such as Henri Lichtenberger, Louis Laloy, and Pierre Aubrey, examined works of the past, and even of the present, by the exactmethods of historical criticism. Choir-masters and organists of greaterudition, such as Andre Pirro and Gastoué, and composers like Vincentd'Indy, Dukas, Debussy, and some others, analysed their art with theconfidence that the intimate knowledge of its practice brings. Aperfect efflorescence of works on music appeared. A galaxy ofdistinguished writers and a public were found to support two separatecollections of Biographies of Musicians (which were issued at the sametime by different publishers), as well as five or six good musicaljournals of a scientific character, some of which rivalled the best inGermany. And, finally, the French section of the _Société Internationalede Musique_, which was founded in 1899 in Berlin to establishcommunication between the scholars of all countries, found so favourablea ground with us that the number of its adherents in Paris alone is nowover one hundred. 

 * * * * *

6. _Music and the People_

Thus music had almost come back to its own, as far as the higher kind ofteaching and the intellectual world were concerned. It remained for aplace to be found for it in other kinds of teaching; for there, andespecially in secondary education, its advance was less sure. Itremained for us to make it enter into the life of the nation and intothe people's education. This was a difficult task, for in France art hasalways had an aristocratic character; and it was a task in which neitherthe State nor musicians were very interested. The Republic stillcontinued to regard music as something outside the people. There hadeven been opposition shown during the last thirty years towards anyattempt at popular musical education. In the old days of the Pasdeloupconcerts one could pay seventy-five centimes for the cheapest places, and have a seat for that; but at some of the symphony concerts to-daythe cheapest seats are two and four francs. And so the people thatsometimes came to the Pasdeloup concerts never come at all to the bigconcerts to-day. 

And that is why one should applaud the enterprise of Victor Charpentier, who, in March, 1905, founded a Symphonic Society of amateurs called_L'Orchestre_, to give free hearings for the benefit of the people. Andin that Paris, where forty years ago one would have had a good deal oftrouble to get together two or three amateur quartettes, VictorCharpentier has been able to count on one hundred and fifty goodperformers, [240] who under his direction, or that of Saint-Saëns orGabriel Fauré, have already given seventeen free concerts, of which tenwere given at the Trocadéro. [241] It is to be hoped that the State willhelp forward such a generous work for the people in a rather morepractical way than it has done up till now. [242]

[Footnote 240: There are ninety violins, fifteen violas, and fifteenvioloncellos. Unfortunately it is much more difficult to get recruitsfor the wood wind and brass. ]

[Footnote 241: They have performed classical music of composers likeBach, Händel, Gluck, Rameau, and Beethoven; and modern music ofcomposers like Berlioz, Saint-Saëns, Dukas, etc. This Society has justinstalled itself in the ancient chapel of the Dominicans of theFaubourg-Saint-Honoré, who have given them the use of it. ]

[Footnote 242: Of late years there has been a veritable outburst ofconcerts at popular prices--some of them in imitation of the German_Restaurationskonzerte_, such as the Concerts-Rouge, theConcerts-Touche, etc. , where classical and modern symphony music may beheard. These concerts are increasing fast, and have great success amonga public that is almost exclusively _bourgeois_, but they are yet a longway behind the popular performances of Händel in London, where placesmay be had for sixpence and threepence. 

I do not attach very much importance to the courageous, though notalways very intelligent movement of the Universités Populaires, wheresince 1886 a collection of amateurs, of fashionable people and artists, meet to make themselves heard, and pretend to initiate the people intowhat are sometimes the most complicated and aristocratic works of aclassic or decadent art. While honouring this propaganda--whose ardourhas now abated somewhat--one must say that it has shown more good-willthan common-sense. The people do not need amusing, still less shouldthey be bored; what they need is to learn something about music. This isnot always easy; for it is not noisy deeds we want, but patience andself-sacrifice. Good intentions are not enough. One knows the finalfailure of the _Conservatoire populaire de Mimi Pinson_, started byGustave Charpentier, for giving musical education to the work-girls ofParis. ]

Attempts have been made at different times to found a _Théâtre LyriquePopulaire_. But up to the present time none has succeeded. The firstattempts were made in 1847. M. Carvalho's old Théâtre-Lyrique was nevera financial success, though quite distinguished performances of operaswere given there, such as Gounod's _Faust_ and Gluck's _Orfeo_, withMme. Viardot as an interpreter and Berlioz as conductor; and thedirectors who followed Carvalho--Rety, Pasdeloup, etc. --did not succeedany better. In 1875 Vizentini took over the Gaîté, with a grant of twohundred thousand francs and excellent artists; but he had to give it up. Since then all sorts of other schemes have been tried by Viollet-le-Duc, Guimet, Lamoureux, Melchior de Vogüé and Julien Goujon, Gabriel Parisot, Colonne and Milliet, Deville, Lagoanère, Corneille, Gailhard, andCarré; but none of them achieved any success. At the moment, a newattempt is being made; and this time the thing seems to show every signof being a success. 

But whatever may be the educational value of the theatre and concerts, they are not complete enough in themselves for the people. To make theirinfluence deep and enduring it must be combined with teaching. Music, noless than every other expression of thought, has no use for theilliterate. 

So in this case there was everything to be done. There was no otherpopular teaching but that of the numerous Galin-Paris-Chevé schools. These schools have rendered great service, and are continuing to renderit; but their simplified methods are not without drawbacks and gaps. Their purpose is to teach the people a musical language different fromthat of cultured people; and although it may not be as difficult as issupposed to go from a knowledge of the one to a knowledge of the other, it is always wrong to raise up a fresh barrier--however small itis--between the cultured people and the other people, who in our owncountry are already too widely separated. 

And besides, it is not enough to know one's letters; one must also havebooks to read. What books have the people had?--so far songs sung at thecafé concerts and the stupid repertoires of choral societies. Thefolk-song had practically disappeared, and was not yet ready forre-birth; for the populace, even more readily than the cultured people, are inclined to blush at anything which suggests "popularity. "[243]

[Footnote 243: M. Maurice Buchor relates an anecdote which typifies whatI mean. "I begged the conductor of a good men's choral society, " hesays, "to have one of Händel's choruses sung. But he seemed to hesitate. I had made the suggestion tentatively, and then tried to enlarge on thesincerity and breadth of its musical idea. 'Ah, very good, ' he said, 'ifyou really want to hear it, it is easily done; but I was afraid thatperhaps it was rather too popular. '" (_Poème de la Vie Humaine_:Introduction to the Second Series, 1905. ) One may add to this the wordsof a professor of singing in a primary school for Higher Education inParis: "Folk-music--well, it is very good for the provinces. " (Quoted byBuchor in the Introduction to the Second Series of the _Poème_, 1902. )]

It is nearly twenty-five years since M. Bourgault-Ducoudray, who was oneof the people who fostered the growth of choral singing in France, pointed out, in an account of the teaching of singing, the usefulness ofmaking children sing the old popular airs of the French provinces, andof getting the teachers to make collections of them. In 1895, as theresult of a meeting organised by the _Correspondance générale del'Instruction primaire_, delightful collections of folk-songs weredistributed in the schools. The melodies were taken from old airscollected by M. Julien Tiersot, and M. Maurice Buchor had put some freshand sparkling verses to them. "M. Buchor, " I wrote at the time, "willenjoy a pleasure not common to poets of our day: his songs will soar upinto the open air, like the lark in his _Chanson de labour_. Thepopulace may even recognise its own spirit in them, and one day takepossession of them, as if they were of their own contriving. "[244] Thisprediction has been almost completely realised, and M. Buchor's songsare now the property of all the people of France. 

[Footnote 244: Taken from the _Supplement à la Correspondance généralede l'Instruction primaire_, 15 December, 1894. ]

But M. Buchor did not remain content to be a poet of popular song. During the last twelve years he has made, with untiring energy, a tourof all the Écoles Normales in France, returning several times to placeswhere he found signs of good vocal ability. In each school he made thepupils sing his songs--in unison, or in two or three parts, sometimesmassing the boys' and girls' schools of one town together. His ambitiongrew with his success; and to the folk-song melodies[245] he begangradually to add pieces of classical music. And to impress the musicbetter on the singers he changed the existing words, and tried to findothers, which by their moral and poetic beauty more exactly translatedthe musical feeling. [246]

[Footnote 245: Three series of these _Chants populaires pour les Écoles_have already been published. ]

[Footnote 246: I reserve my opinion, from an artist's point of view, onthis plagiarising of the words of songs. On principle I condemn itabsolutely. But, in this case, it is Hobson's choice. _Primum vivere, deinde philosophari_. If our contemporary musicians really wished thepeople to sing, they would have written songs for them; but they seem tohave no desire to achieve honour that way. So there is nothing else tobe done but to have recourse to the musicians of other days; and eventhere the choice is very limited. For France formerly, like the Franceof to-day, had very few musicians who had any understanding of a greatpopular art. Berlioz came nearest to understanding the meaning of it;and he is not yet public property, so his airs cannot be used. It iscurious, and rather sad, that out of eighty pieces chosen by M. Buchoronly nine of them are French; and this is reckoning the Italians, Lullyand Cherubini, as Frenchmen. M. Buchor has had to go to German classicalmusicians almost entirely, and, generally speaking, his choice has beena happy one. With a sure instinct he has given the preference to populargeniuses like Händel and Beethoven. We may ask why he did not keep theirwords; but we must remember that at any rate they had to be translated;and though it may seem rash to change the subject of a musicalmasterpiece, it is certain that M. Buchor's clever adaptations haveresulted in driving the fine thoughts of Händel and Schubert and Mozartand Beethoven into the memories of the French people, and making thempart of their lives. Had they heard the same music at a concert theywould probably not have been very much moved. And that makes M. Buchorin the right. Let the French people enrich themselves with the musicaltreasures of Germany until the time comes when they are able to create amusic of their own! This is a kind of peaceful conquest to which our artis accustomed. "Now then, Frenchmen, " as Du Bellay used to say, "walkboldly up to that fine old Roman city, and decorate (as you have donemore than once) your temples and altars with its spoils. " Besides, letus remember that the German masters of the eighteenth century, whosewords M. Buchor has plagiarised, did not hesitate to plagiarisethemselves; and in turning the Berceuse of the _Oratorio de Noël_ into a_Sainte famille humaine_, M. Buchor has respected the musical ideas ofBach much more than Bach himself did when he turned it into a _Dialoguebetween Hercules and Pleasure_. ]

And at last he composed and grouped together twenty-four poems in his_Poème de la Vie humaine_[247]--fine odes and songs, written for classicairs and choruses, a vast repertory of the people's joys and sorrows, fitting the momentous hours of family or public life. With a people thathas ancient musical traditions, as Germany has, music is the vehicle forthe words and impresses them in the heart; but in France's case it istruer to say that the words have brought the music of Händel andBeethoven into the hearts of French school-children. The great thing isthat the music has really got hold of them, and that now one may hearthe provincial Écoles Normales performing choruses from _Fidelio, TheMessiah_, Schumann's _Faust_, or Bach cantatas. [248] The honour of thisremarkable achievement, which no one could have believed possible twentyyears ago, belongs almost entirely to M. Maurice Buchor. [249]

[Footnote 247: The _Poème_ has been published in four parts:--I. _De lanaissance au mariage_ ("From Birth to Marriage"); II. _La Cité_ ("TheCity"); III. _De l'age viril jusqu'à la mort_ ("From Manhood to Death");IV. _L'Idéal_ ("Ideals"). 1900-1906. ]

[Footnote 248: The last chorus of _Fidelio_ has been recently sung byone hundred and seventy school-children at Douai; a grand chorus from_The Messiah_ by the Écoles Normales of Angoulême and Valence; and thegreat choral scene and the last part of Schumann's _Faust_ by the twoÉcoles Normales of Limoges. At Valence, performances are given everyyear in the theatre there before an audience of between eight hundredand a thousand teachers. 

Outside the schools, especially in the North, a certain number ofteachers of both sexes have formed choral societies among work-girls andco-operative societies, such as _La Fraternelle_ at Saint Quentin. 

In a general way one may say that M. Maurice Buchor's campaign hasespecially succeeded in departments like that of Aisne and Drôme, wherethe ground has been prepared by the Academy Inspector. Unhappily in manydistricts the movement receives a lively opposition from music-teachers, who do not approve of this mnemotechnical way of learning poetry withmusic, without any instruction in solfeggio or musical science. And itis quite evident that this method would have its defects if it were aquestion of training musicians. But it is really a matter of trainingpeople who have some music in them; and so the musicians must not be toofastidious. I hope that great musicians will one day spring from thisgood ground--musicians more human than those of our own time, musicianswhose music will be rooted in their hearts and in their country. ]

[Footnote 249: We must not forget M. Bourgault-Ducoudray, who was hisforerunner with his _Chants de Fontenoy_, collections of songs for theÉcoles Normales. ]

M. Buchor's endeavours have been the most extensive and the mostfruitful, but he is not alone in individual effort. There was, twentyyears ago, in the suburbs of Paris and in the provinces, a large numberof well-meaning people who devoted themselves to the work of musicaleducation with sincerity and splendid enthusiasm. But their good workswere too isolated, and were swamped by the apathy of the people aboutthem; though sometimes they kindled little fires of love andunderstanding in art, which only needed coaxing in order to burnbrightly; and even their less happy efforts generally succeeded inlighting a few sparks, which were left smouldering in people'shearts. [250]

At length, as a result of these individual efforts, the State began toshow an interest in this educational movement, although it had for solong stood apart from it. [251] It discovered, in its turn, theeducational value of singing. A musical test was instituted at theexamination for the _Brevet supérieur_[252] which made the study ofsolfeggio a more serious matter in the Écoles Normales. In 1903 anendeavour was made to organise the teaching of music in the schools andcolleges in a more rational way. [253]

[Footnote 250: Mention must especially be made of little groups of youngstudents, pupils of the Universities or the larger schools, who aredevoting themselves at present to the moral and musical instruction ofthe people. Such an effort, made more than a year ago at Vaugirard, resulted in the _Manécanterie des petits chanteurs de la Croix de bois_, a small choir of the children of the people, who in the poor parishes gofrom one church to another singing Gregorian and Palestrinian music. ]

[Footnote 251: It is hardly necessary to recall the unfortunate statuteof 15 March, 1850, which says: "Primary instruction _may_ comprisesinging. "]

[Footnote 252: By the decree of 4 August, 1905. At the same time, aprogramme and pedagogic instructions were issued. The importance ofmusical dictation and the usefulness of the Galin methods for beginnerswere urged. Let us hope that the State will decide officially to supportM. Buchor's endeavours, and that it will gradually introduce intoschools M. Jacques-Delacroze's methods of rhythmic gymnastics, whichhave produced such astonishing results in Switzerland. ]

[Footnote 253: M. Chaumié's suggestion. See the _Revue Musicale_, 15July, 1903. ]

In 1904, following the suggestions of M. Saint-Saëns and M. Bourgault-Ducoudray, class-singing was incorporated with other subjectsin the programme of teaching, [254] and a free school of choral singingwas started in Paris under the honorary chairmanship of M. Henry Marcel, director of the Beaux-Arts, and under the direction of M. Radiguer. Quite lately a choral society for young school-girls has been formed, with the Vice-Provost as president and a membership of from six to sevenhundred young girls, who since 1906 have given an annual concert underthe direction of M. Gabriel Pierné. And lastly, at the end of 1907, anassociation of professors was started to undertake the teaching of musicin the institutions of public instruction; its chairman was theInspector-General, M. Gilles, and its honorary presidents were M. Liardand M. Saint-Saëns. Its object is to aid the progress of musicalinstruction by establishing a centre to promote friendly relations amongprofessors of music; by centralising their interests and studies; byorganising a circulating library of music and a periodical magazine inwhich questions relating to music may be discussed; by establishingcommunication between French professors and foreign professors; and byseeking to bring together professors of music and professors in otherbranches of public teaching. 

[Footnote 254: _Revue Musicale_, December 15, 1903, and 1 and 15January, 1904. ]

All this is not much, and we are yet terribly behindhand, especially asregards secondary teaching, which is considered less important thanprimary teaching. [255] But we are scrambling out of an abyss ofignorance, and it is something to have the desire to get out of it. Wemust remember that Germany has not always been in its present plethoricstate of musical prosperity. The great choral societies only date fromthe end of the eighteenth century. Germany in the time of Bach waspoor--if not poorer--in means for performing choral works than Franceto-day. Bach's only executants were his pupils at the Thomasschule atLeipzig, of which barely a score knew how to sing. [256] And now thesepeople gather together for the great _Männergesangsfeste_ (choralfestivals) and the _Musikfeste_ (music festivals) of Imperial Germany. 

[Footnote 255: "In this, " says M. Buchor, "as in many other things, thechildren of the people set an example to the children of the middleclasses. " That is true; but one must not blame the middle-class childrenso much as those in authority, who, "in this, as in many other things, "have not fulfilled their duties. ]

[Footnote 256: _The Passion according to St. Matthew_ was given first ofall by two little choirs, consisting of from twelve to sixteen students, including the soloists. ]

Let us hope on and persevere. The main thing is that a start has beenmade; the thing that remains is to have patience and--persistence. 

THE PRESENT CONDITION OF FRENCH MUSIC

We have seen how the musical education of France is going on intheatres, in concerts, in schools, by lectures and by books; and theParisian's rather restless desire for knowledge seems to be satisfiedfor the moment. The mind of Paris has made a journey--a hasty journey, it is true through the music of other countries and other times, [257]and is now becoming introspective. After a mad enthusiasm overdiscoveries in strange lands, music and musical criticism have regainedtheir self-possession and their jealous love of independence. A verydecided reaction against foreign music has been shown since the time ofthe Universal Exhibition of 1900. This movement is not unconnected, consciously or unconsciously, with the nationalist train of thought, which was stirred up in France, and especially in Paris, somewhere aboutthe same time. But it is also a natural development in the evolution ofmusic. French music felt new vigour springing up within her, and wasastonished at it; her days of preparation were over, and she aspired tofly alone; and, in accordance with the eternal rule of history, thefirst use she made of her newly-acquired strength was to defy herteachers. And this revolt against foreign influences was directed--onehad expected it--against the strongest of the influences--the influenceof German music as personified by Wagner. Two discussions in magazines, in 1903 and 1904, brought this state of mind curiously to light: one wasan enquiry held by M. Jacques Morland in the _Mercure de France_(January, 1903) as to _The Influence of German Music in France_; and theother was that of M. Paul Landormy in the _Revue Bleue_ (March andApril, 1904) as to _The Present Condition of French Music_. The firstwas like a shout of deliverance, and was not without exaggeration and agood deal of ingratitude; for it represented French musicians andcritics throwing off Wagner's influence because it had had its day; thesecond set forth the theories of the new French school, and declared theindependence of that school. 

[Footnote 257: It is hardly necessary to mention the curious attractionthat some of our musicians are beginning to feel for the art ofcivilisations that are quite opposed to those of the West. Slowly andquietly the spirit of the Far East is insinuating itself into Europeanmusic. ]

For several years the leader of the young school, M. Claude Debussy, has, in his writings in the _Revue Blanche_ and _Gil Blas_, attackedWagnerian art. His personality is very French--capricious, poetic, and_spirituelle_, full of lively intelligence, heedless, independent, scattering new ideas, giving vent to paradoxical caprice, criticisingthe opinions of centuries with the teasing impertinence of a littlestreet boy, attacking great heroes of music like Gluck, Wagner, andBeethoven, upholding only Bach, Mozart, and Weber, and loudly professinghis preference for the old French masters of the eighteenth century. Butin spite of this he is bringing back to French music its true nature andits forgotten ideals--its clearness, its elegant simplicity, itsnaturalness, and especially its grace and plastic beauty. He wishesmusic to free itself from all literary and philosophic pretensions, which have burdened German music in the nineteenth century (and perhapshave always done so); he wishes music to get away from the rhetoricwhich has been handed down to us through the centuries, from its heavyconstruction and precise orderliness, from its harmonic and rhythmicformulas, and the exercises of oratorical embroidery. He wishes thatall about it shall be painting and poetry; that it shall explain itstrue feeling in a clear and direct way; and that melody, harmony, andrhythm shall develop broadly along the lines of inner laws, and notafter the pretended laws of some intellectual arrangement. And hehimself preaches by example in his _Pelléas et Mélisande_, and breakswith all the principles of the Bayreuth drama, and gives us the model ofthe new art of his dreams. And on all sides discerning and well-informedcritics, such as M. Pierre Lalo of _Le Temps_, M. Louis Laloy of the_Revue Musicale_ and the _Mercure Musicale_, and M. Marnold of _LeMercure de France_, have championed his doctrines and his art. Even the_Schola Cantorum_, whose eclectic and archaic spirit is very differentfrom that of Debussy, seemed at first to be drawn into the same currentof thought; and this school which had so helped to propagate the foreigninfluences of the past, did not seem to be quite insensible to thenationalistic preoccupation of the last few years. So the _Schola_devoted itself more and more--as was moreover its right and duty--to theFrench music of the past, and filled its concert programmes with Frenchworks of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries--with Marc AntoineCharpentier, Du Mont, Leclair, Clérambault, Couperin, and the Frenchprimitive composers for the organ, the harpsichord, and the violin; andwith the works of dramatic composers, especially of the great Rameau, who, after a period of complete oblivion, suddenly benefited by thisexcessive reaction, to the detriment of Gluck, whom the young critics, following M. Debussy's example, severely abused. [258] There was even amoment when the _Schola_ took a decided share in the battle, and, through M. Charles Bordes, issued a manifesto--_Credo_, as they calledit--about a new art founded on the ancient traditions of French music:

 "We wish to have free speech in music--a sustained recitative, infinite variety, and, in short, complete liberty in musical utterance. We wish for the triumph of natural music, so that it shall be as free and full of movement as speech, and as plastic and rhythmic as a classical dance. "

It was open war against the metrical art of the last three centuries, inthe name of national tradition (more or less freely interpreted), offolk-song, and of Gregorian chant. And "the constant and avowed purposeof all this campaign was the triumph of French music, and itscult. "[259]

[Footnote 258: There is no need to say that Rameau's genius justifiedall this enthusiasm; but one cannot help believing that it was aroused, not so much on account of his musical genius as on account of hissupposed championship of the French music of the past against foreignart; though that art was well adapted to the laws of French opera, as wemay see for ourselves in Gluck's case. ]

[Footnote 259: _La Tribune de Saint-Gervais_, September, 1903. ]

This manifesto reflects in its own way the spirit of Debussy and hisuntrammelled musical impressionism; and though it shows a good deal ofnaïveté and some intolerance, there was in it a strength of youthfulenthusiasm that accorded with the great hopes of the time, and foretoldglorious days to come and a splendid harvest of music. 

Not many years have passed since then; yet the sky is already a littleclouded, the light not quite so bright. Hope has not failed; but it hasnot been fulfilled. France is waiting, and is getting a littleimpatient. But the impatience is unnecessary; for to found an art wemust bring time to our aid; art must ripen tranquilly. Yet tranquillityis what is most lacking in Parisian art. The artists, instead of workingsteadily at their own tasks and uniting in a common aim, are given up tosterile disputes. The young French school hardly exists any longer, asit has now split up into two or three parties. To a fight againstforeign art has succeeded a fight among themselves: it is thedeep-rooted evil of the country, this vain expenditure of force. Andmost curious of all is the fact that the quarrel is not between theconservatives and the progressives in music, but between the two mostadvanced sections: the _Schola_ on the one hand, who, should it gain thevictory, would through its dogmas and traditions inevitably develop theairs of a little academy; and, on the other hand, the independent party, whose most important representative is M. Debussy. It is not for us toenter into the quarrel; we would only suggest to the parties in questionthat if any profit is to result from their misunderstanding, it will bederived by a third party--the party in favour of routine, the party thathas never lost favour with the great theatre-going public, --a partythat will soon make good the place it has lost if those who aim atdefending art set about fighting one another. Victory has beenproclaimed too soon; for whatever the optimistic representatives of theyoung school may say, victory has not yet been gained; and it will notbe gained for some time yet--not until public taste is changed, notwhile the nation lacks musical education, nor until the cultured few areunited to the people, through whom their thoughts shall be preserved. For not only--with a few rare and generous exceptions--do the morearistocratic sections of society ignore the education of the people, butthey ignore the very existence of the people's soul. Here and there, acomposer--such as Bizet and M. Saint-Saëns, or M. D'Indy and hisdisciples--will build up symphonies and rhapsodies and very difficultpieces for the piano on the popular airs of Auvergne, Provence, or theCevennes; but that is only a whim of theirs, a little ingenious pastimefor clever artists, such as the Flemish masters of the fifteenth centuryindulged in when they decorated popular airs with polyphonicelaborations. In spite of the advance of the democratic spirit, musicalart--or at least all that counts in musical art--has never been morearistocratic than it is to-day. Probably the phenomenon is not peculiarto music, and shows itself more or less in other arts; but in no otherart is it so dangerous, for no other has roots less firmly fixed in thesoil of France. And it is no consolation to tell oneself that this isaccording to the great French traditions, which have nearly always beenaristocratic. Traditions, great and small, are menaced to-day; the axeis ready for them. Whoever wishes to live must adapt himself to the newconditions of life. The future of art is at stake. To continue as we aredoing is not only to weaken music by condemning it to live in unhealthyconditions, but also to risk its disappearing sooner or later under therising flood of popular misconceptions of music. Let us take warning bythe fact that we have already had to defend music[260] when it wasattacked at some of the parliamentary assemblies; and let us rememberthe pitifulness of the defence. We must not let the day come when afamous speech will be repeated with a slight alteration--"The Republichas no need of musicians. "

[Footnote 260: At any rate, certain forms of music--the highest. See thediscussions at the Chambre des Députés on the budget of the Beaux-Artsin February, 1906; and the speeches of MM. Théodore Denis, Beauquier, and Dujardin-Beaumetz, on Religious Music, the Niedermeyer School, andthe civic value of the organ. ]

It is the historian's duty to point out the dangers of the present hour, and to remind the French musicians who have been satisfied with theirfirst victory that the future is anything but sure, and that we mustnever disarm while we have a common enemy before us, an enemy especiallydangerous in a democracy--mediocrity. 

The road that stretches before us is long and difficult. But if we turnour heads and look back over the way we have come we may take heart. Which of us does not feel a little glow of pride at the thought of whathas been done in the last thirty years? Here is a town where, before1870, music had fallen to the most miserable depths, which to-day teemswith concerts and schools of music--a town where one of the firstsymphonic schools in Europe has sprung from nothing, a town where anenthusiastic concert-going public has been formed, possessing among itsmembers some great critics with broad interests and a fine, freespirit--all this is the pride of France. And we have, too, a little bandof musicians; among them, in the first rank, that great painter ofdreams, Claude Debussy; that master of constructive art, Dukas; thatimpassioned thinker, Albéric Magnard; that ironic poet, Ravel; and thosedelicate and finished writers, Albert Roussel and Déodat de Séverac;without mention of the younger musicians who are in the vanguard oftheir art. And all this poetic force, though not the most vigorous, isthe most original in Europe to-day. Whatever gaps one may find in ourmusical organisation, still so new, whatever results this movement maylead to, it is impossible not to admire a people whom defeat hasaroused, and a generation that has accomplished the magnificent work ofreviving the nation's music with such untiring perseverance and suchsteadfast faith. The names of Camille Saint-Saëns, César Franck, CharlesBordes, and Vincent d'Indy, will remain associated before all otherswith this work of national regeneration, where so much talent and somuch devotion, from the leaders of orchestras and celebrated composersdown to that obscure body of artists and music-lovers, have joinedforces in the fight against indifference and routine. They have theright to be proud of their work. But for ourselves, let us waste no timein thinking about it. Our hopes are great. Let us justify them. 

WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH

THE MUSICIAN'S BOOKSHELF. 

A NEW SERIES. 

_Crown 8vo. Occasionally Illustrated. _

EDITED BY CLAUDE LANDI, L. R. A. M. , A. R. C. M. 

MUSICIANS OF TO-DAY. By ROMAIN ROLLAND, Author of "Jean-Christophe. "Translated by MARY BLAIKLOCK. 

PRACTICAL SINGING. By CLIFTON COOKE and CLAUDE LANDI. 

THE UNREST IN THE MUSIC WORLD. By SYDNEY BLAKISTON. 

THE SONATA IN MUSIC. By A. EAGLEFIELD HULL, Mus. Doc. 

THE SYMPHONY IN MUSIC. By the same. 

ON LISTENING TO MUSIC. By E. MARKHAM LEE, M. A. , Mus. Doc. 

COUNTERPOINT. By G. G. BERNARDI. Translated by C. LANDI. 

OPERA. By HARRY BURGESS. 

_Other Volumes in preparation_.